


Time and Music

by Mockingjay468



Series: The Paths We Tread [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Adoption, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Beta'd, Caves, Child Abuse, Daeron Needs A Hug, Dagor Bragollach, Depression, Family, Hurt/Comfort, I wrote this while procrastinating, Idiots in denial, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Maglor Also Needs A Hug, Maglor actually is one of the greatest minstrels, Manipulative Relationship, Melian is a creepy fae, Mereth Aderthad, Music, Self-Harm, Sort of Excorcism, Sort of a Slow Burn?, Storms, daeron is luthien's brother, getting drunk, sort of enemies to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 04:40:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 47,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29040273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mockingjay468/pseuds/Mockingjay468
Summary: There is a revel one night and Daeron stands at the edge of the party with his arms crossed and keeps his eyes firmly on his self-declared nemesis as Maglor laughs and talks and flits around the lantern lit grass.It is unfair, really, that Eru chooses to test him like this.Daeron and Maglor, from their meeting at Mereth Aderthad and an utterly terrible decision on both sides to the moment that they both finally understand the other.
Relationships: Daeron/Maglor | Makalaurë, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: The Paths We Tread [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2125998
Comments: 106
Kudos: 62





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!
> 
> Alright, so, I wrote this. It is a mixture of quite a few tropes and I have very little idea where I'm going with it. But I have found that there is an unfortunate lack of Daemags at the moment and found [this post](https://kanafnwe.tumblr.com/post/189167989584/daeron-and-maglors-first-meeting-maybe) by kanafnwe on tumblr and got inspired (the first scene is taken almost directly from this piece)! Please do go check it out - it's a really fun piece of art.
> 
> And so my Daemags piece for this series will be written. It is going have multiple chapters but I cannot promise a consistent publishing schedule because my brain apparently doesn't like that.
> 
> As always, I thank [oliviacat3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliviacat3/pseuds/oliviacat3) for betaing this piece.
> 
> TW - child abuse and questions about non-con as well as a bit of self-harm
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

“ _You’re_ Maglor the Minstrel?”

“Daeron, we’re here to fix relations, _not to pick a fight-_ ”

Maglor turns around. He is just walking back to his tent with Maedhros and now he has been accosted by some Sinda.

He turns. It is Daeron, the prince of Doriath and renowned minstrel in his own right. He has someone – a guard, Maglor supposes – on his right who has closed his eyes and looks almost physically in pain. The prince himself is dressed in dark greys and his silver hair reflects the starlight and moonlight and Maglor would think him beautiful if not for the look of utter disgust in his face.

“I expected more from you,” He sneers, “That performance was average at best.”

Maglor burns in fury at his words but lets none of that ire show on his face. He smiles brightly and can feel Maedhros lean a little bit away from him as he laughs. “You must be living under a rock to think so,” He says, keeping his tone completely polite, “But I thank you for your unnecessary input.”

Daeron narrows his eyes. “Of course, if that is what you believe. Would you care to play with me to show me your supposed skill?”

“I don’t play with inferior musicians,” Maglor informs him sweetly. “But if you tell me when you shall be performing I shall endeavour to be there. I’m sure that you would appreciate some tips.”

He bows his head. “It is always nice to know what those with lesser skill think of my music.”

Maglor’s smile sharpened. “And yet, I am disappointed by your less than ideal review.” He bows his head respectfully. “Good day Prince Daeron.”

He turns from heel and strides away before he breaks his façade of indifference.

* * *

Daeron hates Maglor Fëanorion.

He is absolutely certain of this.

The ellon is egotistical, narcissistic, self-absorbed and pompous. He smiles serenely even as Daeron insults him and his songs weave themselves perfectly with the Music around him, in a way Daeron has never heard from another minstrel.

He is infuriatingly good and Daeron cannot let him be better than him.

They play together – they play _against_ each other, actually, but to everyone else it certainly looks like they are getting along – and it is almost a relief to Daeron that it ends in a draw. Almost, because a draw is still not a win and his mother will still be disappointed when he tells her.

The next few days at King Fingolfin’s party they have a total of seventeen more fights, not one of which ends in anything other than a draw.

Mablung tells him that it is nice that he was finally getting on with someone and Daeron very nearly screams. Mablung laughs.

“You look furious,” He says as Daeron’s eye twitches. “It’s clear that you like him a lot.”

Daeron does _not_ like Maglor Fëanorion a lot and tells Mablung so before storming out of the tent.

* * *

Daeron is far too good at playing music, Maglor decides, as the minstrel finishes to a standing applause.

Maglor watches him, carefully hiding his face behind a goblet of wine.

“He’s very good,” Curufin comments.

“He’s not _that_ good.”

Curufin scrutinises him. “You’re jealous.”

Maglor snorts. “I am nothing of the sort. Don’t you have a wife to get back to?”

“She’s spending the night with some Laiquendi nís tonight.” He shrugs indifferently. “And everyone else is watching Finrod and I have no desire to watch that golden-haired idiot be swooned over by the world and her wife.”

“And you think _I’m_ the one who’s jealous?”

Curufin scowls and Maglor laughs, turning his attention back to the stage. Daeron begins another song – something about rivers and the sea that is, dare Maglor think it, artfully composed – and Maglor watches a weight he hadn’t realised was there gently fall off the other nér’s shoulders as he plays.

* * *

There is a revel one night and Daeron stands at the edge of the party with his arms crossed and keeps his eyes firmly on his self-declared nemesis as Maglor laughs and talks and flits around the lantern lit grass.

It is unfair, really, that Eru chooses to test him like this.

He watches Maglor get closer and closer to where he is standing, glowering in the shadows, and then he is there with two goblets of wine in hand and a wide smile.

“Drink with me?” He asks. “I should like a drinking partner who is not part of my family and I’m afraid you are the only one who fits that criteria.”

Daeron raises an eyebrow. “Surely you are not related to everyone here? I understand that Ñoldor reproduce like particularly frisky rabbits but even I would be surprised to hear that the invasion of the continent is a family endeavour.”

Maglor gives him his scarily sinister smile. “Do you want the drink or not?”

“Only because the wine is nice,” He replies, accepting the drink. “Not for any joy of the company.”

Maglor has the sheer audacity to laugh and Daeron throws back the drink swallowing it one go.

“Is there any more?”

“Certainly, right this way.” Maglor loops his arm through Daeron’s and Daeron does not pull away as he is led to wherever Maglor is taking him.

* * *

The morning dawns early and Maglor wakes up with a splitting headache.

Recollections of the previous night are shaky at best. There are moments of laughing and drinking and he is dragging someone to his tent and…

Maglor sits up very sharply, his headache completely forgotten.

He didn’t.

He _couldn’t have_.

Unfortunately, the evidence is not in his favour.

He stands shakily, his body aching in a way he didn’t know it could, and pulls on his rumpled clothes. He steps into the bright morning light and skirts around the edge of the camp and into the forest, walking until he reaches the running stream.

It is chirpy in a way nothing should be on this horrible, terrible morning, Maglor decides as he pulls off his clothes jerkily and steps into the clear water. It is freezing but Maglor doesn’t care, scrubbing his skin of any and all evidence of the night before as if that might just remove the stupid, idiotic mistake as well.

Surprisingly, it doesn’t.

Maglor tentatively reaches out to touch at the new bond in his mind and is violently repelled by one of the strongest shields Maglor has ever felt.

He doesn’t know if it comforting or completely soul-destroying that the other person – and _why can’t he even remember who he fucking married_ – is regretting the night as much as he is.

He pulls his legs up, sitting down on a smooth rock on the river bed, letting the water flow past him. He idly scratches at the back of his wrist, peeling the scabbed skin back and letting blood drip over his fingers.

He hears a pair footsteps on the forest floor.

“Maglor, what are you doing out here?” Maedhros asks, coming to a stop. “And don’t do that.”

“I’m stupid,” He says frankly, stilling his hands with some effort. “I’m stupid and I’m an idiot and you shouldn’t ever let me out of your sight.”

Maedhros sighs. “Come on Maglor, this is no time to be dramatic.”

Maglor doesn’t look at him nor reply.

“Kano.”

Maglor tenses as he hears the splashing of someone walking into the water.

“Kano, look at me.”

Of all the things he’s going to do, that is certainly not one of them.

Someone’s rough, calloused hand forces his chin up and Maglor meets his brother’s eyes. There is shock, disappointment and then…

“Maglor, who did this?” He sounds angry and Maglor flinches away.

“I did.”

“Who with?”

“I don’t…I don’t know. I was really drunk last night.” He looks away again and a little voice in the back of his mind whispers _stupid, stupid, stupid_. His hand drifts to his wrist again but Maedhros grabs it.

“Makalaurë Kanafinwë, what happened last night?” He asks very seriously and Maglor realises the anger is not aimed at him.

He bursts into tears.

* * *

“She’s going to kill me, she’s going to kill me, she’s going to-”

Daeron cuts off and lets go of Mablung’s arm and sinks to the floor, shaking like a leaf in an autumn breeze. He can feel his skin changing under his hands, bubbling and growing feathers as he can’t control his own power.

Mablung blinks his eyes open.

“Wha-” He reaches a hand up to his forehead as his eyes focus on Daeron. “Woah, woah, woah.” He sits up. “Start from the beginning _Gwinig_.”

Daeron shakes his head wordlessly, wrapping his arms – he has four now – around himself. Mablung slips off the bed and kneels before him, with a wordless invitation for an embrace. Daeron falls forward and sobs as panic courses through his veins. His hair is feathery under Mablung’s gently stroking hand and he is sure that he is glowing and he _hates it, he hates it, he hates_ -

“Can you tell me what happened?” Mablung asks patiently and Daeron shakes his head again. Mablung gently squeezes tighter and waits.

“I married the Fëanorion,” Daeron whispers a moment later, his power receding slightly so that the changes to his appearance become less apparent. “She’s going to kill me.”

Mablung makes no response for a moment and Daeron is very worried that he has done something unforgivable and despite his constant assuaging of Daeron’s fears, this is a step too far and Mablung is going to leave.

“It’s alright,” He says instead, “She wouldn’t dare kill the Prince of the Sindar and she always forgets.”

 _Eventually, once the punishment is over,_ is left unsaid.

* * *

“It’s like four in the morning Maedhros,” Caranthir says, rubbing his eyes. Maedhros had assembled all remaining six sons of Fëanor on a matter of great urgency. “What on all of Eru’s good earth needs us up this early?”

“Maglor has made an unfortunate decision.”

All four look over at Maglor sitting on his bed, hunched over his knees.

“He killed someone?” Amras suggests, balancing a knife on the tip of his finger. Caranthir grabs the blade and Amras glares, making to grab it back.

“He sent a misinformed letter?” Celegorm asks. “It seems like it’ll be something boring like that.”

Caranthir gives the knife to Maedhros and Amras sinks back in his seat, a scowl on his face. “Did he steak something important from Fingolfin?”

They all look at Curufin, who has yet to make his suggestion. Curufin looks at Maglor for a long moment. “He married Daeron, didn’t he?” Maglor looks up and Curufin smiles in satisfaction.

“We don’t know who it was for certain,” Maedhros says, although Maglor thinks that Curufin might be completely correct. “But you are otherwise correct Curvo.”

“Really, Maglor. How did you do _that_?” Caranthir raises his eyebrows.

“You get really, really drunk, apparently, until you have absolutely no inhibitions.” His voice is still scratchy from when he sobbed into Maedhros’ shoulder earlier. His hand grips his wrist tightly – Maedhros wrapped a bandage around it earlier so he couldn’t pick at it, so this is the best next option.

Celegorm looks vaguely impressed. “I say, I must congratulate you. I don’t think I’ve ever done something so stupid while inebriated.”

“You once fought a bear while completely naked,” Curufin reminds him.

“I had Aredhel there.”

Caranthir snorts a laugh. “Yeah, like that _really_ helped.”

Maedhros sighs irritably and they fall silent. “No-one is going to say a word of this to anyone, understood?”

They nod.

“But you woke us up why?” Amras asked, glowering. “None of us _needed_ to know this.”

“I thought that you might _want_ to know and this is the extent to which we are going to talk about this, got it?” Maedhros has his stern face on and they all nod again. “Good. You can go back to bed or whatever it is you were doing.” He gives Celegorm a look that makes Maglor think that he was not the only one making dubious decisions last night.

* * *

“I can’t see the bond in your eyes anymore and you are completely devoid of all unusual appearances,” Mablung says, examining Daeron’s face scrupulously. “No-one here should be able to tell.”

Daeron gives him a weak smile. “Thank you.” His face falls. “It won’t keep it from her, though.”

“No.” Mablung presses a kiss to his forehead. “But you will be safe for now. I shall make sure of that. Now, are you ready?”

Daeron hesitates before nodding.

“Good. Now, onto our departure.”

* * *

The Gap is rather lonely when Maglor returns.

While they are annoying and irritating and continually get on his nerves but they are the sort of loud that Maglor loves. The sort of loud that creates a music all of it’s own and that melts into the Music.

He sighs.

“Alright, you’ve been like this ever since the Mereth Aderthad,” Aelineth says, dropping a pile of papers on his desk. “Whatever is the matter?”

Aelineth is his lieutenant, an old apprentice of his mother’s who followed their father into exile for his sons. At his death, she had been a pillar of support through his disastrous regency and Maglor is very glad that she came with him to the Gap. She is steadfast and solid and has a very no-nonsense attitude which keeps him from completely getting lost in the middle of the Music.

He shrugs. “I suppose I miss my brothers.”

“That is not what this is. Try again.” She crosses her arms, brooking no argument.

“Will you keep it secret?”

“Of _course_.” She looks offended at the mere insinuation she would spread his secrets.

“I accidentally got married.”

“Oh.” She dropped into the seat on the other side of the desk.

“I think he might be the Prince of Doriath.”

“Oh _shit_.”

He covers his face with his hands.

“Well, that would explain the listlessness at least.” She reaches out and pats his arm. “It’ll be alright Maglor.”

* * *

“Dae!” A low flying nightingale changes swiftly into his younger sister. She grins at him. “You’re back!”

He returns the gesture as she throws her arms around him.

“Hey Lú – I missed you too,” He says. “The assembly was all good and well but I would have far preferred it with you at my side.”

“And I would have loved to have been there but Nana was insistent that it would have been too dangerous and she always knows better.”

Daeron can feel his smile stiffen and is glad that Lúthien can’t see his face.

“Come on little bird,” Mablung says, dismounting beside Daeron. “Your brother has had a long journey and I’m sure he would like to rest.”

Behind Lúthien, Daeron spots his parents and forces himself not to freeze up.

Melian looks as serene as ever as she walks up to them on her husband’s arm. Elu, for once, does not look dazed and out of the moment. He smiles at his children and steps forward, paying no heed to the hand on his arm, shaking off Melian as if she weren’t even there.

It is moments like this that Daeron thinks that maybe he would break free of Melian’s ever tightening grip, even though he knows it’s a futile thought.

He embraces Daeron.

“I’m very glad you are back, ion-nin. You were greatly missed.” Daeron hugs back with as much force as he dares, relishing in this moment when it is actually his father in front of him and not some half-possessed ghost.

He pulls away though and returns to Melian’s side, the entranced look returning to his face.

“You should freshen up,” Melian says, pressing a gentle hand to his cheek, “And then we may talk in full of your trip.”

Lúthien sighed dreamily as they departed. “I wish I may one day find love as wonderful as theirs,” She says.

Daeron clenches his fist behind his back but smiles at his sister. “I’m sure you will, sister dearest.”

* * *

Maglor jerks to full consciousness, gripping the sheets tightly in one hand.

His skin is sticky with sweat and…other substances he doesn’t want to think of.

He can still feels hands on his skin and a whisper in his ear and the shiver of pleasure it gives him.

“Grow up Maglor,” He says into the dark. “You forget anything ever happened, remember? Just erase it from your mind – don’t keep bloody reminding yourself of it.”

That is far easier said than done.

* * *

Daeron’s bedroom door opens just as he is falling into reverie.

It closes again.

“Tifanto,” Melian says, sitting on the edge of the bed. “What didn’t you tell us earlier?”

He tenses. She always knows. He shouldn’t have been so stupid as to think she wouldn’t have caught the well-practised air to his words. He’s just made the entire thing worse for himself.

He pushes himself to a sit, feeling very small beneath his mother’s disappointed gaze.

He very, very slightly opens her mind to her – just the top layer, just the bit where the marriage bond is.

She sighs, disappointed. “Tifanto, you are far beyond such earthly matters. What on earth possessed you to do something so ill-advised?”

He means to say he didn’t, he means to say the Ñoldo forced him into it – she will call him weak but the punishment will not be so severe and he can weather it.

He doesn’t say this.

“I love him,” Tumbles from his lips instead, a wholly false ideal. “I haven’t ever met someone who wasn’t you or Lúthien who could hear the Music so well. He was beautiful and intoxicating and I wasn’t thinking straight.”

She purses her lips in disappointment. “And who, may I ask, has intoxicated you so?”

Maglor’s name drops unwillingly from his lips and her disappointment grows, her otherwise perfect features furrowing. Daeron feels a stab of being a cause of the imperfection and is furious at himself for feeling so.

“Invite him here,” She commands, standing up. “I wish to meet the Elf that has done this to my son.” She swishes to the door but pauses with her hand on the handle. “But it is not entirely his fault, is it?”

“No.” The small, whispered word is forced from his throat.

She sighed deeply. “I’m afraid I must punish you for your own error in judgement.”

Daeron thinks of begging as he feels the familiar sucking feeling around his mind but decides that it won’t be effective anyway.

The Music that has always played around him vanishes.

He gasps involuntarily at the loss, clenching his fist at the pounding silence.

His mother looks down at him sadly. “I’m sorry, Tifanto, but I must do this. It’s for your own good. Have that letter ready by the morn.”

And she is gone, locking the door behind her, and leaves him to his suffering.

He tries to block out the silence by humming some idle tune but it comes out broken and is small and thin to his ears. It’s almost worse than the silence.

Almost.

He drags himself from the bed and takes out his writing set. He stares at the blank paper for a moment, before making a decision and dipping his quill in the ink and beginning to write.

Maglor will not come to _this_ place.

* * *

_My dearest Maglor,_

_I find myself missing you dreadfully and sitting here I can only think of you. You are intoxicating absent as you are by my side. Words cannot describe the elation I feel at the thought of you being here._

_I cannot write long but I find myself growing melancholy alone in the home that I previously found so full of life and love. Please, I beg of you to come here, to visit me and my family. You are a wonder beyond all others and I wish to introduce you to my family._

_Your beloved,_

_Daeron_

* * *

Maglor stares at the piece of paper in his hands in complete and utter disbelief.

What, on all of Eru’s sweet earth, is Daeron _playing_ at?

“He’s supposed to _hate_ me,” He mutters. “I shall not be so easily taken in by sweet words.”

Hands on his skin and whispers in his ear come to mind but he sharply pushes them away. They are _not_ reality.

He pens a reply.

* * *

_Daeron,_

_I shall not be taking up your offer. I do not have such free time as you. I have a land to care for and I have left it enough recently._

_Maglor_

* * *

Daeron pretends to be heartbroken at Maglor’s reply and his mother, for once, buys it.

He is relieved beyond any and all belief that Maglor caught the hint in his flowery prose and didn’t take him up on the offer.

He is safe.

He is safe, that is, until the Ñoldo in their court, who his mother has taken a liking to and taken under her wing (and he wants to scream at her to run far, _far_ away), reveals a horrible secret.

“They are kinslayers.” The fury in his mother’s eyes is beyond anything he has seen before. “I thought I may be able to forgive your utterly appalling lapse in judgement but I see now that that is not possible.”

“Nan-”

“Silence.” He feels his throat close. “You married someone who, not only invades our lands, takes oaths and steals, but who has killed their own kin – _your own kin_.” Her eyes flash. “You _knew_ , didn’t you? You knew these terrible secrets when you and him were married but you kept them from us.”

“No.” He tries to plead. He’s on his knees on the floor of a cell in the lowest depths of Menegroth – he’s only been here one time before, for trying to run away when he was very little, and he can still feel the punishment. He will degrade himself, he will plead and beg on the floor, if she just doesn’t do _that_ to him again. “ _Please_ , Nana.”

She stares down at him coldly. “No child of mine would commit treason against my realm.”

“Nana!” Tears are running down his cheeks and he just wants her to bundle him up in her arms like she did when he was little and make him laugh. He doesn’t-he doesn’t _want_ to be this disappointment to her. He doesn’t want to hate her so intensely as he does now. “Please-”

“You are no child of mine.”

She turns and marches out of the cell, the door slamming closed behind her.

The world sucks, the Music vanishes, a cold creeps into his bones, into his soul. The whispers begin, filling the painful silence with their terrible voices.

He sobs, wrapping his arms around himself in some futile attempt to keep warm, and is completely and utterly distraught.

* * *

Maglor felt a snap of pain that was decidedly not his flit fleetingly across his mind.

He scrabbled at all his bonds but none of his brothers or cousins seemed to be in any danger.

 _Weird_ , he thought, turning back to his work, rather unsettled.

* * *

Daeron doesn’t know how long he’s been here when the door opens.

It’s not food or water pushed under the door. It must be his mother. He tucks himself further into a ball in the corner.

He halted in his crying a moment ago when the whispers vanished and the Music replaced them. The cold is still here but his mother – no, the queen – must have invented some new torture for him.

“Daeron,” Someone whispers gently, stroking a hand through his hair. “Oh what did she _do_ to you ion-nin?”

Daeron looks up sharply. His father stands, framed by the flickering torchlight of the corridor. He is dressed in plain sleep clothes and his hair is only in a loose braid over his shoulder and he is looking at Daeron with so much pain.

“Ada,” Daeron says and throws himself into his father’s arms. Elu hugs him back just as tightly.

“I’m so sorry my dear. I should have been able to protect you.” He presses a kiss to his forehead. “But we cannot wait. The drugs I have put in her tea will only keep her knocked out for so long. I would suppose you have a few hours at most.” He leans his forehead against Daeron’s. “Be swift, ion-nin. Be swift, be safe and know that I love you dearly.”

* * *

It is raining.

This is hardly uncommon for the Gap, as even during the summer it is prone to a horrible sort of drizzle that sticks to the back of your neck and makes your hair frizzle. This does not mean that Maglor likes it. His one consolation is that he didn’t live at Himring where it also snows or sleets almost all year around.

“My Lord?” Aelineth knocks on his open office door. “The guard at the main gate says that there is someone at the gate asking for you.”

Maglor stands abruptly, pleased at the opportunity to have something to do beyond copying out reports for Maedhros and his uncle. “Did anyone say who it was?”

“No my Lord. Losson said that they gave no name but seemed desperate enough that we don’t _think_ they’re an imposter.”

“You didn’t bring them in though?” Maglor checks sharply as they stride together down the corridor. “The Enemy is a master of deceit.”

She shakes her head. “We didn’t my Lord. Losson said that they were keeping him outside.”

“Good. Was there anything else?”

“Not that I was told my Lord,” She says. “Losson is usually very thorough in his reports though, so I would take that to mean there was nothing visible.”

“Right.”

This is worrying, Maglor supposes. People do not come to visit him out of the blue – the Gap is not the most accessible and has a fairly limited civilian population – those seeking the Fëanorians go to Maedhros in Himring or one of his other brothers. Hopefully, it is nothing of ill-intent. Focussing on the Music, he can hear something clearly signifying _something_ but it seems to not be iniquitous.

The guards bow slightly as he passes and Aelineth orders the gate to be opened. An elf, wrapped tightly in a cloak and completely soaked, stops where he is pacing and meets Maglor’s eyes.

He hasn’t seen this particular elf in a while. He has practically struck him from his mind; would have literally done so, if that had been possible. The elf in question looks like shit – he is shivering almost violently, has bags under his eyes so bad Maglor might think he’d been punched squarely in the face and looks completely and utterly miserable.

“Daeron,” Maglor begins, gesturing for the guards to stand down.

Daeron’s eyes can’t apparently focus on him as they keep flickering. Maglor has many, many things he wants to yell at this elf but he is in such a sorry state, that he holds his tongue.

He takes a step forward. “What are you doing here?”

Daeron opens his mouth to speak but no words come out. Maglor takes another step as Daeron begins to sway on his feet.

“Oh, don’t pass out,” Maglor says irritably but Daeron doesn’t listen. Maglor has to lunge forward to catch him.

“This is the elf?” Aelineth asks, giving Daeron a highly sceptical look. “Really Maglor?”

“I was drunk. Drunk Maglor doesn’t make good decisions.” He stands and finds that Daeron is far lighter than a grown elf has any right to be. “But I shall hold the entire thing against him when he isn’t unwell.”

Aelineth still looks unsure but shrugs and follows him all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-Canon Names:  
> Tifanto - Gift of Bitterness (Sindarin)  
> Aelineth - Lake Woman (Sindarin)
> 
> Quenya Translations:  
> Nís - Female Elf  
> Nér - Male Elf  
> Laiquendi - Green Elf
> 
> Sindarin Translations:  
> Gwinig - Little Child  
> Ion-nin - My son  
> Ada - Father (Informal)  
> Nana - Mother (Informal)  
> Ellon - Male Elf


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!  
> Chapter 2 is here, beta'd as always by [oliviacat3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliviacat3/pseuds/oliviacat3)!  
> TW - Maglor is still self-harming in this chapter, so be warned.

Aelineth has bandaged both Maglor’s wrists and put a pair of simple, leather vambraces on top and she keeps popping into the doorway of the infirmary just to make sure that both are still in place. Maglor thinks she might have also asked the healer that comes in to tend on Daeron periodically to also keep an eye on him because he keeps sneaking glances at Maglor every now and again.

Maglor would be annoyed at Aelineth’s lack of trust if not for the fact that his fingers itch to pick at his skin and he knows that despite his best efforts, he wouldn’t be able to resist.

He doesn’t know why he’s so anxious.

“Because this is the man you married, _idiot_ ,” A voice, sounding remarkably like Curufin, says in the back of his mind.

But they weren’t truly married – at least, not in any way that mattered. Maglor didn’t care what this elf thought of him nor whether he survived or not.

Yet, somehow, Aelineth still has to practically drag him from Daeron’s bedside so that he will sleep or eat or actually do his job as Lord of the Gap.

* * *

Daeron wakes to the sound of someone singing softly along to the Music.

Fuck.

He wasn’t – he had better not have brought himself to _him_ of all people.

The singing stops.

“Daeron?”

He opens his eyes, squinting against the light, and turns his head in the direction of the voice. On a small, wooden chair Maglor Fëanorion sits, looking at him in concern.

Oh _fuck_.

“How are you feeling?” He asks as if he somehow actually cares about Daeron’s wellbeing.

“Fine,” Daeron replies shortly. This is a lie – his head is pounding and he feels dizzy even lying down. He struggles to sit up, swallowing down the sudden nausea that rears its head. “What are you going to do with me?”

“ _Do_ with you?” The Fëanorian looks bewildered. “I’m not going to _do_ anything with you. It’s just that you collapsed and it felt rather unfair to leave you out in the rain. You should lie down.”

“No.” Daeron swings his legs over the edge of the bed and rises shakily. “I should go.”

Maglor rises an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yes.” He leans against the wall as the world around him spins. “I just…need to…” He trails off as it becomes difficult to speak and stay upright at the same time.

“You just need to go back to bed? Yes I agree.”

Daeron doesn’t look up but it sounds like the Fëanorian has crossed his arms. He scowls, forcing himself forward. “Where I my clothes?”

“We burnt them.”

“What?” He looks up and unbalances. He catches himself against the wall and tries to glare at the other elf, even though the effort feels rather weak to him. “How dare you?”

“I tried to have them cleaned but they were an utter disaster and there wasn’t very much wearable cloth remaining over. You can borrow something of mine if you want.”

“I don’t want anything of yours, _kinslayer_.” Daeron spits, sliding to the floor as his legs finally give out.

The Music quiets in the ensuing silence so that it is barely more than whisper. “You know about that?” Maglor asks tightly.

“Yes.” Daeron grits his teeth as he pushes himself back to his feet. He doesn’t exactly know where he’s going now but it is somewhere other than _here_. “Your cous-” Nausea rises again and he stops his speech to swallow it back. “Your cousin told my mother.” He clenches his fist. “I would be surprised if you didn’t hear about it soon.” He takes another step towards the door.

“You can borrow some of my lieutenants clothes then, if you are so sure on the matter. I’m sure she will not mind.”

Daeron swallows and nods once, not quite trusting himself to open his mouth.

“And get back into bed. You’re really not fooling anyone.”

* * *

“Aelineth? Do you have any spare clothes you don’t mind giving away for a good cause?”

Aelineth looks up from what she’s reading. “What do you need my clothes for?”

“Daeron doesn’t want mine. Plus, I think they’d be rather short on him.”

She rolls her eyes. “If my Lord commands it, I suppose I must.” She turns away and mutters to herself as she walks away down the corridor. “ _He doesn’t want them_. Since when did we cater to the whims of spoiled Sindar princelings?”

* * *

Daeron meant to make his way back to bed but looking at the distance back, his legs gave up on him and he decided that he was comfortable enough on the floor that it really wasn’t worth it to try and make himself stand again.

He is somewhere between reverie and sleep and some form of consciousness when the door opens.

“I brought you clothes as ordered.” There is a sigh. “What part of ‘get back into bed’ didn’t you understand?” The question appears to be rhetorical so Daeron doesn’t reply. Maglor strides across the room and then Daeron is being lifted as if he weighs no more than a feather. “You should really eat more,” He mutters under his breath as he lays him once more on the bed and pulls the blanket up. “There, now get some sleep.”

A gentle hand brushes a lock of hair from Daeron’s face and then he hears footsteps recede into the distance and a door close.

* * *

Maglor cannot come the next morning for there is an orc attack and he has to go deal with that and once the reports have been filed and the sun is just beginning to set, he makes his way to the infirmary. He knocks on Daeron’s door but finds no answer.

He knocks again and pushes the door open. He smiles when he sees the other minstrel curled up in the bed – he does, Maglor supposes, look very beautiful without his customary scowl on his face.

He leans against the doorframe for a moment, watching him sleep, before turning away to find Aelineth for the daily report from the guards.

* * *

Daeron can neither find sleep nor fall into reverie; since he has got better from his ailment, rest has become increasingly difficult to grab onto.

He tosses over in the bed which is somehow both too lumpy and too perfectly soft. He finds himself hot so kicks off the blanket but then he is too cold and has to pull it back up to cover his shivering limbs.

It is a horrible state where he is somehow at every possible extreme at once.

And the Music – usually a comforting presence in the back of his mind – is loud and annoying and keeps playing in a cacophony of clashing notes.

He huffs out a sigh and is just about to get up and walk around when there is a knock on the door.

“Come in!” He calls, pushing himself to a sit.

The door is pushed open and the Fëanorian comes in. He looks exhausted.

“What’re you doing to the Music?” He asks, putting his hands firmly on his hips.

“I thought that was you,” Daeron replies, even though the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind.

“It’s not me. It’s been doing this ever since you arrived here.” He scowls, crossing his arms over his chest. “So, what are you doing?”

“I’m doing nothing! It’s keeping me awake as much as you.” He crosses his arms as well and stares back.

Maglor breaks first, groaning and untying his robe, draping it over the back of the nearby chair. “Budge over.”

“What? I am _not_ sharing a bed with you.”

They stare at each other.

“Ugh. _Fine_.” He scoots back and Maglor slips under the blanket as well.

* * *

Maglor hasn’t slept so well for _years_.

Usually, he is haunted by dreams and stress and can never go deeper than a sort of half consciousness; or he is constantly distracted by the Music which he can’t keep out of his head.

But sleeping next Daeron is…calming.

Certainly, this is unfortunate.

He is warm and comfortable as he wakes, finding himself comfortably curled up in Daeron’s arms.

This is doubly unfortunate.

Maglor closes his eyes again and pretends to still be asleep. He is going to have to write to Maedhros about this entire disaster.

* * *

_Maedhros,_

_I trust you are well. It has not stopped raining here since I sent my last letter and I suspect Himring is not much better (if it is, please refrain from informing me)._

_A few days ago – five, to be exact – Prince Daeron practically appeared on my doorstep, soaking wet and ill. I, being the benevolent person I am, took him in. He got better but the Music had been acting crazy._

_Naturally, I assumed him, as the son of a Maia, to be the cause but he staunchly refuted all my claims, even going so far as to saying that he thought it me to be the cause of this disruption. Can you believe the audacity?_

_I had to make sure that he wasn’t doing anything so I slept with him (without the inuendo that implies – it was purely platonic in nature) and the morning afterwards found myself both well-rested and curled up with him. It was nice! How dare it? Such things should not be allowed. I do not like him! At all. So why did I feel so warm and comfortable when I woke up?_

_Please send a reply and help,_

_Maglor_

* * *

Daeron wakes and for the first time in many, _many_ weeks, he feels safe.

He buries himself further into the person he is curled up with, still half-asleep. The person freezes and Daeron remembers exactly who he was sleeping with the night before.

He tugs himself away abruptly, sitting up and shaking himself.

“Good morning,” Maglor says sleepily. “I hope you slept well.”

As a matter of fact, Daeron slept better than he has for a very long time. “Not at all actually.”

“Ah, well, we are both in the same boat then.” Maglor slips off the bed and gives him a bright grin. “Would you like to join me for breakfast?”

Daeron would _not_ like to join the kinslaying Fëanorian for breakfast but for some reason, his mouth is not co-operating. “For the taste of the food not the joy of the company.”

Maglor laughs and it’s contagious.

“I shall get dressed and so should you, and then I’ll take you to the canteen.”

* * *

Maglor is deep in conversation with Daeron when Aelineth drops her tray loudly on the table and sits heavily down opposite the pair of them.

“I’ve put the reports on your desk. What are you two talking about?” She stares hard in Daeron’s direction.

“Nothing much. Music things – you don’t really care about this stuff.”

“No, I do. Tell me more.”

Maglor rose an eyebrow. “You want to talk about the importance of the element of silence to emotion created in music?”

She scowls. “No,” She admits. “Captain Losson asked to talk about reinforcing the gate in a few minutes time at your office.”

Maglor examines his lieutenant (and good friend) with some concern. “Are you alright ‘Neth?”

“Perfectly fine my Lord.” She moodily eats a spoonful of porridge and refuses to meet his eye.

“If you’re sure.” He turns to Daeron who is staring at his empty plate looking thoroughly uncomfortable. “I’ll take you to the music room on the way to my office, if you would like. I’ll come collect you for lunch and I may be able to spare an hour or two to teach you that song from my childhood.”

Daeron perks up at that and Maglor feels warm inside at being the cause of his happiness. “I should love that. And I’ll teach you a song my father used to sing to me when I was very little – he said he used to sing it when the elves still lived at Cuiviénen.”

* * *

“You’ve been wearing those clothes for a few days now. Let’s go to the market later and find something that isn’t second-hand.” Maglor is looking at him from the bed. Somehow, in the week or so since he was discharged from the infirmary, Daeron had found himself sleeping in Maglor’s quarters – and he has been sleeping very well, so he has not complained.

“I’m afraid I have no money with which to buy something.”

Maglor frowns propping himself up on an eyebrow. “You _were_ rather lacking any bags when I found you. I wouldn’t have thought a prince of the Sindar to be so ill-prepared.”

Daeron feels his actions as he laces the arms of the shirt become awfully wooden. “I left very suddenly,” He says tightly, keeping his eyes averted.

Maglor makes a small noise of discontentment but says nothing, slipping off the bed and opening his closet to find something for himself to wear. “I’d buy them for you but you would probably mind using a kinslayers money.”

Daeron stiffens under Maglor’s light but accusing tone.

“I’m sorry for imposing Lord,” He says. “If you have no more wish for my presence, I would leave you be.”

“No!” Maglor swings around and Daeron catches a hint of desperation within his eyes. “Please don’t do that.”

He takes a step forward and Daeron involuntarily backs away. Maglor clenches his fist and tenses, taking a few breaths. “You may, of course, do as pleases you.”

Daeron wants to say that that would be to stay here ( ~~to try at a relationship that they could have, married as they are~~ ) – and he doesn’t know _why_ he does when he’s supposed to hate this person who has blood on his hands and practically invaded the continent – but he doesn’t.

Instead he bows stiffly. “I thank you Lord for your hospitality but it is clear that I have overstayed my welcome. I shall be going now.”

* * *

_Dearest brother,_

_You are by far one of the biggest idiots I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. You say that you enjoy this elf’s presence and that you feel warm and happy around him? It is clear to me that you have some semblance of feelings for him._

_You married him, didn’t you? Drunk Maglor may not make good decisions but he does follow his heart (he has cried to me enough times for me to know that). There is plenty of evidence for me to come to this conclusion._

_My advice to sober Maglor is not to be dense and just accept what you feel. Tell him how you feel and I am sure that he will feel similarly._

_For once, my dear Makalaurë, could you just accept that happiness isn’t a luxury and do something with your feelings?_

_The weather here is, for once, very warm and sunny,_

_Maedhros_

* * *

“My lord, the head of the bronze workers guild – Maglor, don’t _do_ that!”

Aelineth marches across the room and gently plies his hands away from his forearms. Blood from rivets he scratched into the flesh drips onto the fabric of his leggings but Maglor doesn’t really notice. He sits completely still as Aelineth begins to bandage his arms.

“I _thought_ he wasn’t any good.” She mutters. “It _is_ the princeling that’s the cause of all this?” She looks furious.

“I love him,” He says in return. “I love him and I told him to leave.”

“You don’t love him Maglor. You haven’t known him long enough for it to be love.” She ties off one bandage. “But you care for him.”

“Maedhros disagrees.”

“Maedhros hasn’t been here.” She gives the letter on Maglor’s desk a quick once over as her hands do the mindless task of wrapping fabric. “Hmm. Look, you can’t…” She trails off as Maglor leans forward and with a sigh, gently embraces him. “There, there. It’ll all look brighter in the morning.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!  
> Chapter three is here! A thank you to my beta [oliviacat3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliviacat3/pseuds/oliviacat3).  
> TW - I don't think there's much, other than partial nudity towards the end and implications of self harm.

Maglor swallows.

He stands on an elevated platform with a majority of the population of the Gap standing before him. The main square hasn’t ever been this crowded and yet it has also never been so quiet.

He clenches his hands behind his back as he begins to speak.

“The king of the Sindar has been told of the horror at Alqualondë,” He says, his voice quiet but strong. “As the Teleri are of his kin he has demanded reparations.” He takes a short breath, resisting the urge to close his eyes. “As well as this, he has banned the speaking of Quenya throughout his lands and those of Lord Círdan and requested that we do so too.”

He has to stop as there is complete outage at Maglor’s words.

“I do not-” He starts and waits as the crowd quiets. “I do not want to do this. I love our tongue in my singing and my speech. I shall not begrudge you the speaking of Quenya in your own homes but until said otherwise, I have been ordered to prohibit the speaking of it in the streets or in trade.” He bites his lip. “I am sorry.”

* * *

Daeron pulls his cloak around his shoulders.

It smells like Maglor, he thinks idly before snorting. Of course it smells like Maglor – it _was_ Maglor’s before he gave it to him when he left.

He squeezes his hand into a fist.

He doesn’t know why he feels so guilty.

He tries to shake the feeling out of his head but no matter what he does, he can still see the other elf’s distraught face as he leaves.

* * *

There is a knock on Maglor’s open office door.

“My lord?” Aelineth asks. “Your brother is here.”

Maglor looks up from the sheets of numbers he’s going over. “Maedhros?”

“Nope.” Aelineth steps out of the way of Caranthir and gives Maglor a quick glance before disappearing down the corridor. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“I’m not – disappointed that is,” Maglor says, standing to greet his younger brother. “But what are you doing here?”

“Neneth heard from Aelineth that you’re hosting the Prince you accidentally married and I came because I felt that you would be stupid about it.”

“Why would you think that?” Maglor crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow.

Caranthir rolls his eyes. “Let me think…Cantasië, Málalpa, Lindatáli, Lauróma-”

“OK, OK! You’ve made your point – but I haven’t done anything stupid this time. We came to a mutual agreement not to see each other anymore.”

“Which is why you scratched your own arms up after he left and didn’t speak for two weeks!”

Caranthir rises an eyebrow as Aelineth’s voice drifts in from the next room. “Oh?”

“It was still a mutual agreement,” Maglor grumbles crossing his arms and sinking onto the table. “And I don’t care anymore – I didn’t care before he appeared and I don’t care now.”

* * *

Daeron has found himself a nice cave for the night and he is very glad of this as the rain begins.

He has gained a few things since he left the Gap – a bag he won off another traveller in a game of chance; a knife bought with a song from a particularly cheery dwarf; a bow he carved himself, using the knife, and created a length of hemp for the string. There are also a few other things he has gathered over the years, including a good piece of flint for lighting a fire when the situation arises.

His clothes are still the ones he left the Gap in. He would have liked to find a change of outfit but he has yet to come across anyone who was willing to trade and he has no desire to go into any town.

He is just drifting off to sleep when his ears catch something other than the pounding of rain.

He sharply brings himself back to full consciousness, reaching out and picking his knife, holding it close, ready to attack whatever ends up in the cave if it is at all antagonistic.

The footsteps come closer, fast and heavy, and Daeron pushes himself up to a crouch.

Maglor comes skidding into sight and trips as he slides into the cave, falling straight onto his face.

“Fuck.” He groans, rolling onto his back and breathing heavily.

Daeron snorts involuntarily and Maglor looks over in offense. “This isn’t funny. My wrist is broken and my ankle hurts enough that I think that I’ve just sprained it.”

Daeron smothers his laugh with a hand but can’t control the amused smile on his face. “With those injuries I would think you must have been fighting a formidable enemy indeed.”

Maglor rolls his eyes as he pushes himself up gingerly. He opens his mouth to retort when he freezes.

* * *

Maglor was on his way back from visiting Finrod when the rain started.

Normally, Maglor would just suck it up and keep riding, but then the thunder started and his horse frightened.

He was thrown from the saddle and landed awkwardly, breaking his right wrist quite cleanly. Even in the dark and rain, he could see it was at a completely very odd angle, the leather vambrace doing little to protect his arm from hurt. He bit his lip hard as he tried to relax and pushed the bone back into place.

He tasted blood.

He had landed on his front – and it really was a wonder that he didn’t break anything else – and subsequently his harp was unharmed. The knife on his belt was still in place and he had a packet of lembas and an empty waterskin beside it.

He pushed himself up (grimacing as his body protested) and trudged forward, wrapping the cloak as tightly around himself as he could with one hand and holding his other wrist gingerly in front of him.

The weather was miserable and he really wanted somewhere to sit and check his injuries. Then, he supposed, he could sleep until the rain cleared and he could attempt to find his horse again.

There was a flash of lightning and Maglor jumped, spotting for a moment something in the nearby ridge. Something suspiciously like a cave.

And that was how he finds himself here.

“Daeron,” He says as he realises who he is sharing the cave with. He sits up straighter. He has a moment where he debates just standing up and leaving but his ankle is definitely sprained – and badly by the feel of it.

“Maglor.” Daeron’s expression has closed off and Maglor finds he misses the amused smile on his face from a moment ago.

He doesn’t look too terrible, in all honesty. He is rather gaunt from lack of food, his clothes are ragged – the same ones, Maglor thinks, that he asked Aelineth for – and his face is dirty but other than that, he looks fairly decent for apparently living in the wild for the last four years.

“I won’t trouble you,” Maglor says. “I’ll sleep and then I will leave when the sun is up and the rain has stopped.”

He leans back against the wall, containing a wince as his bruised back hits the stone wall just a little too hard.

* * *

“Do you have something for your wrist?”

Daeron speaks before he thinks. He really shouldn’t care so much about this elf. If he wishes to run himself into the ground, Daeron certainly won’t stop him.

Except…

Maglor looks at him guiltily. “No. My horse bolted.”

Daeron bites his lip before making the decision to care – but only tonight. Just until he is certain Maglor has his injuries wrapped and has found his horse.

He turns and searches through his bag. There are a few scraps of fabric and at the bottom lies all his firewood. He searches around until he finds two fairly straight and strong sticks as well and turns back to the other elf.

Daeron sings as he works, a song to keep the makeshift splint in place and so that the bone doesn’t heal crooked and need to be rebroken. He first undoes the vambrace and rolls the sleeve up. He finds that he will not need to use his scraps of fabric for wrapping as there are already bandages wrapping around Maglor’s arms.

Underneath, the skin is scarred. Daeron is curious as to what caused scarring of such strange shapes and forms but it is none of his business and he works to set the bone.

When he is done there, he pulls of Maglor’s boot and checks his ankle. It is indeed sprained and Daeron cuts off his song as he looks around for the scraps of fabric that he put aside when he found the bandage.

“I have another,” Maglor says and Daeron looks up. Maglor looks a little bashful. “I could…I could hear across our bond.” He thrusts out his left arm and Daeron sees that there is another bandage beneath the top.

“Why do you have them?” He asks – and he is just curious, doesn’t care at all about the elf’s wellbeing.

He shrugs. “My lieutenant insists.”

“Why?” With the newly unwrapped bandage, Daeron rolls Maglor’s leggings over his knee to untie the garter and pull of his soaking hose. The flesh is already swelling and going a faint purple. He begins to tightly wrap it up like Beleg taught him when he was little.

Maglor shrugs again and doesn’t answer. Daeron doesn’t push as he finishes his task and ties the bandage off.

* * *

Maglor wakes up in the middle of the night shivering and cold and with his head feeling like it is full of cotton wool.

He curls up miserably in his wet clothes and knows that he should probably take them off but cannot bring himself to do so.

There is a groan from across the cave.

“Fëanorion, I swear, don’t tell me you’re _ill_ now.”

There are footsteps and Daeron crosses the cave to crouch beside him. He holds a blessedly freezing hand against Maglor’s forehead and Maglor whimpers as he pulls it away.

“Dammit.”

* * *

Daeron can’t leave now. It would be cruel, however much he is trying to dislike the Fëanorion.

He doesn’t have many herbs in his bag – at least, not any that will help with a fever – so he resorts to gently peeling the other elf’s wet clothes away until he is only in his under things. Regretfully, he parts with his tunic so that Maglor doesn’t completely freeze.

He does not want to light a fire, for the cave would become awfully smoky and it might very well attract something he doesn’t want to deal with, so he pulls the violently shivering Fëanorion into his lap.

Despite being of Valinor – and Daeron has noticed that the Valinorean elves are decidedly taller than their Sindarin compatriots – Maglor is at least a head shorter than Daeron. He fits neatly in Daeron’s lap and curls into his chest as Daeron sings a Song of healing and sleep.

Daeron doesn’t move, spending the night awake with his arms wrapped around the Ñoldo.

* * *

Maglor awakes on hard stone, curled underneath someone else’s cloak.

Daeron, his brain supplies. Maglor pretends that it is because he remembers last night, ignoring the stray thought that the cloak smells like pine and magic, exactly like Daeron.

“Ah, you’re awake.”

Maglor pushes himself to a sit, wincing at the twinge of pain in his wrist as he does so. The sun streams in through the entrance to the cave and Daeron sits in the entrance by a fire, roasting something that smells delicious.

“Rabbit,” Daeron says in a way of an explanation, turning around. “It’s nearly night, so I’m afraid you shall have to spend another night with me.”

Maglor nods. Daeron turns away again; he isn’t wearing a top and it is rather distracting.

“You’re clothes are still drying.” He gestures vaguely in the direction of the back of the cave where his clothes are laid out on the floor.

He realises why Daeron is not wearing a tunic.

He bites back a smile as he pulls the cloak around himself and comes to settle down beside Daeron.

They do not speak – Daeron stays focussed on the task at hand and Maglor looks out at the setting sun. He hadn’t had a chance to admire the view earlier but it is certainly beautiful. From their place on the ridge, the small woodland spreads out beneath their feet and in the distance, he can see a sparkling stream.

“You talked a lot in your sleep last night.”

Maglor looks sharply to his right as Daeron spoke. He still didn’t look up from his cooking.

“Oh?” Maglor asks, trying to keep any concern out of his voice.

“Who’s Pityo?”

* * *

Maglor’s shoulder had been gently brushing Daeron’s but as he stiffens, Daeron feels him lean away.

“My younger brother,” He says tightly. “He…died.”

Daeron doesn’t miss the soft hesitation.

“When?”

“That’s none of your-” He starts but cuts off and sighs, “He never stepped onto Beleriand.”

“He died in the kinslaying?”

“No! We wouldn’t have…both the twins were _children_ we weren’t…” He stops and with a glance backwards, Daeron sees Maglor blink fiercely. “The twins did not take part in the kinslaying. Atto forbade it. He might have been…well, he loved us as fiercely as the Silmarils, even if the latter were more often on his mind.” He huffs a self-deprecating laugh, pulling his legs up. “I don’t think he would have let any of us fight if he had been any further in his right mind.”

Daeron doesn’t quite know what to say to that, so keeps his silence, turning the rabbit over on the makeshift spit.

“He didn’t ask us to take that oath.” Daeron gets the distinct impression he is no longer the person Maglor is speaking to. “We did it anyway. Sometimes I…sometimes I regret doing so. I love my father but he wasn’t…he was grieving and grieving people tend not to make wise decisions.”

“Sometimes?” Daeron can’t help but interject. “You killed people.”

“I regret _that_ ,” He says, putting his chin on top of his knees. “And I will regret that until the breaking of the world. But the oath…the oath…”

Daeron rolls his eyes. “What oath can possibly hold more attention on your mind than murder?” He asks irritably.

Maglor doesn’t look at him as he speaks, the words upon his tongue sharp and practised. “Be he foe or friend, be he foul or clean, brood of Morgoth or bright Vala, Elda or Maia or Aftercomer, Man yet unborn upon Middle-earth, neither law, nor love, nor league of swords, dread nor danger, not Doom itself, shall defend him from Fëanor, and Fëanor's kin, whoso hideth or hoardeth, or in hand taketh, finding keepeth or afar casteth a Silmaril. This swear we all: death we will deal him ere Day's ending, woe unto world's end! Our word hear thou, Eru Allfather! To the everlasting Darkness doom us if our deed faileth. On the holy mountain hear in witness and our vow remember, Manwë and Varda!”

He buries his face in his knees as he finishes.

* * *

Maglor has spoken the words of the oath to himself on the most terrible nights when he can’t sleep. It doesn’t help but he does it anyway.

It has been a long time since he spoke the words to someone else and he can’t bear to look at Daeron once he has finished the verse. He wants to please him, he wants Daeron to be happy…

He wants Daeron to be happy.

Because he loves him.

And he _married_ him.

Fuck, Maedhros was right.

“You should get dressed.”

Maglor looks up, ignoring the revelation.

Daeron stands in front of him with his clothes held loosely in one hand.

“They’re dry. And I should like my tunic back.”

“Really?” Maglor makes a face at the state of the cloth and Daeron rolls his eyes.

“Unfortunately, these are my only clothes.”

“Keep mine then.” The words drop from Maglor’s tongue before he can stop them. Daeron looks at him in surprise and Maglor feels heat rise in his cheeks. “I mean, my clothes are newer and of better quality, so would last you longer than these, and I shall be returning to the Gap soon and would then be able to change there. It would simply be the most reasonable thing to do.”

“If you’re sure?”

Maglor nods as all ability to speak completely leaves him.

His eyes follow Daeron before he realises that Daeron is going to get changed and he spins forward, his face flaming in embarrassment.

* * *

It is odd, to wear clothes that are not dangerously close to fraying.

Comfortable and warm, but odd.

Maglor looks very dejected as he eats his rabbit. Daeron pretends not to notice.

They are just going to sleep when Maglor sits up suddenly. Daeron turns around.

“I have a proposition.”

“A proposition?”

Maglor bites his lip and his fist tightens in his lap.

“I should like to start over.”

Daeron rises an eyebrow.

“I don’t want to be your enemy. In any way.” He tucks a stray lock of hair behind his ear and Daeron finds his eyes following the action. “I like you, you’re good at music and we’re _married_ for Eru’s sake. I don’t want to continually try to avoid my husband. I’m an emotional wreck, all the time, and I expect no commitment or…or relationship from you, I just…don’t want to pretend that I don’t like you or that I am completely apathetic to your fate.”

Daeron realises he is staring as Maglor’s face turns red and he frowns.

“It doesn’t matter,” He says and lies down. “I’ll be gone in the morning.”

* * *

Daeron is sitting by the ashes of the fire when Maglor wakes up. The sky is still dark and a few stars are still visible.

He is completely silent as Maglor pulls on his boots and belt, checking everything is secured. His wrist is hurting a lot less now and should be healed by the time he gets back to the Gap.

“I found your horse,” Daeron says as Maglor begins to slip past him.

Maglor pauses.

“She’s at the bottom of the path. She apologises for spooking.”

“It’s fine,” Maglor says before realising that Daeron was not the one apologising.

Daeron laughs and turns around, his braid swinging as he does so. Maglor has the sudden impulse to pull it loose and bury his hands in the long silver hair. “I thought over your proposition.” His smile softens. “I should like to be your friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-Canon Names:  
> Neneth - Water Woman (Sindarin)  
> Cantasië - Song of Comfort (Quenya)  
> Málalpa - Loving Swan (Telerin)  
> Lindatáli - Dancing Feet (Quenya)  
> Lauróma - Golden Voice (Quenya)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!
> 
> Chapter four is here! I have to warn you now - updates may be a little slower from now on because I have plans to make a medieval fantasy inspired outfit thing and that is going to be taking up some of the free time I would usually be writing in but I shall still try to keep updates as regular as possible.
> 
> Thanks again to [oliviacat3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliviacat3/pseuds/oliviacat3) for beta'ing.
> 
> And I hope you enjoy!

“You’re going by Lindir nowadays I hear.”

Daeron spins around and faces Maglor, grinning like a cat that has caught a particularly large bird. He snorts a short laugh.

“I didn’t think people would react very well if I started declaring I was the Prince of Doriath.”

“And now you’re singing in small Ñolodorin towns. You _have_ gone down in the world.”

Daeron smiles. “Well, we can’t all be great lords. Some of us have to work for a living.”

“Do you have a place to stay tonight, O valiant worker?”

Daeron rolls his eyes. “Of course. I found a very comfortable tree in the nearby woods.”

“Sindar and their trees. You should stay with me – I’ve a room in the local inn and it would be far more comfortable inside than out.”

“I suppose we’ve shared a bed before.” Daeron picks up his bag. “After you.”

* * *

Maglor lies on the bed beside Daeron, feeling content and sated.

“That was…very nice,” Daeron says, slightly out of breath.

Maglor hums an answer.

They lie there for a moment.

“But we did that just as friends, correct?”

Maglor hums again. Daeron asks that every time they meet up like this.

“Good.”

It is probably Maglor’s imagination but it sounds like Daeron is disappointed by his answer.

* * *

“I’m buying you breakfast,” Maglor declares. “What do you want?”

“What?” Daeron blinks his eyes open blearily. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I can see at least four of your ribs. I believe that makes me legally indebted to buy you breakfast.” Maglor pulls his tunic over his head. “What do you want?”

Daeron pushes himself upright. “Seriously, Maglor. You don’t need to buy me food.”

“OK then, let’s go with your story.” He buttons his jacket up. “I might not _need_ to get you food (although I’m fairly certain that I do) but I would very much like to. As a thank you for a lovely night.”

“I-” Daeron’s stomach growls and Maglor smiles.

“Good, you agreed. What do you want?”

Daeron relents. It doesn’t seem like Maglor intends to give up any time soon. “I like egg.”

“Then eggs it shall be.” Maglor swoops down and presses a soft kiss to Daeron’s forehead before practically skipping from the room.

Daeron watches the door swing shut and sighs, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He aches rather pleasantly as he searches around for his clothes strewn over the floor and the remnants of euphoria still runs through his veins.

He wishes…well, he wishes a lot of things but one wish is that he might be able to stay with Maglor for more than a few nights every decade or so. The other elf has rather grown on him, in all honesty, and Daeron finds himself yearning for Maglor’s presence whenever he is absent.

Of course, this wish is impossible. Even if Maglor invited him back to the Gap, Daeron would be loath to live off his charity for the rest of time.

* * *

“Good morning Lord,” The cheery elf at the front desk greets as Maglor comes down the last few steps.

“It is, isn’t it?”

“Breakfast will be served in a few minutes. Oh, and a warning.” The elf leans over the counter, his face turning dark. “A group of Sindar marchwardens came past. Apparently, the Enemy is active.”

“Oh?” Maglor’s good mood sinks slightly at the words. “Can you tell me more?”

“No, I’m sorry Lord. I didn’t let them in – I personally think the whole thing to be completely false and I’m not letting any Sinda near any of my confidential documents.”

“Of course.” Maglor gives him a distracted smile. “Now, what are you serving for breakfast?”

* * *

“I feel your argument against being hungry is rather poor,” Maglor says as Daeron finishes his food. “You ate that in under three minutes.”

Daeron swallows his mouthful, resisting the urge to look mournfully at his now empty plate. “I have no idea what you mean.”

Maglor snorts a laugh and smiles. It is a beautiful smile.

“So, where are you going after this?” Daeron asks. “Back to the Gap?”

“If I don’t Aelineth will have my heart on a platter.” He takes another bite of his scrambled eggs, the wonderful smile fading slightly. “I’ll miss you.”

“And we’ve been over this before – I can’t come back with you. It will cause a political disaster.”

That isn’t the real reason. Daeron feels…guilty…for lying.

Maglor sighs, setting down his cutlery. “Are you still hungry?” He pushes his plate forward. “I’ve lost my appetite.

“Don’t do that,” Daeron says, pushing the plate back. “If you can chase after me for not eating, I can chase after _you_ for not eating.”

Maglor sighs but doesn’t complain, doing as he is told.

* * *

“So, this is where we part.”

Maglor grips the reins of the horse tightly. “Yes.” He gives Daeron a strained smile and doesn’t resist the urge to lean forward and press a kiss to his lips. “I’ll miss you,” He says, echoing his words form this morning.

“I know.” Daeron takes a step back as Maglor swings up onto the horse. “I’ll see you around.”

Maglor nods in response, not daring to speak for fear of the waver in his voice, and begins off down the road.

* * *

Daeron wanders back into the town rather morosely.

He is going to play once more in the Square and then he will move on.

Where to go?

He perches himself on the edge of the fountain in the centre of the square, taking out his flute. A crowd gathers as he plays and by the time the sun has reached it’s high, he has gathered a small pile of change which he adds to the rest in his wallet.

He tucks it under the collar of his tunic – a new one, which Maglor insisted he have – and wraps up his flute, packing it back into his bag. He swings it over his shoulder.

With a sigh, he walks over to someone from the dispersing crowd. “Are there any other settlements nearby?”

The elf shrugs. “If you follow the road, you’ll probably come across something,” She says. “Nice performance by the way.” And she turns away.

* * *

Maglor knows that Daeron doesn’t want to come back with him.

Maglor would _like_ Daeron to come back with him. He would like it a lot.

But Daeron doesn’t want to and Maglor will respect his wishes.

Laeglin whinnies as if she can feel his inner turmoil and Maglor strokes behind her ear idly. “It’s alright ‘Glin,” He says, “I’ll see him again.”

Though not anytime soon – and he’ll be underfed and raggedy again and Maglor will worry.

 _Bit hypocritical of you_ , a voice that sounds a lot like Amras say in the back of his head. It is Amras, Maglor realises, talking over their bond. _If you didn’t have one of us or Aelineth,_ you _certainly wouldn’t be able to self-regulate_.

Maglor brushes his brother away irritably. “That’s all the more reason he should come back with me – we can help each other.” He sighs. “But I shan’t force him. Anyway, I may love him but he almost certainly does not love me.”

Amras snorts disbelievingly. He _didn’t know the people you killed_.

“They were his kin all the same. I’m not…I’m not going to talk about this, OK? I don’t need to have this argument every single time I leave him.”

 _You’ll regret it! One day, you won’t find him again and you’ll be all alone_. With his final, foreboding words of warning, Amras slips back into his own mind, leaving Maglor alone.

* * *

Pain blossoms quite suddenly in Daeron shoulder and he gasps, stumbling forward, as his vision goes momentarily white.

An arrow sticks into his flesh.

His ears, through the rushing of blood, catch soft footfalls and he spins around, ignoring the burning running down his arm. He sees nothing but he knows that someone is there.

He blinks blearily. There is…there must be something on the arrow tip.

His Maian blood tries to fight it off but the poison is stronger. Daeron begins to sway on his feet.

He needs…to…fall…forward! Forward, yes. Stop the arrow from digging further into his skin. Stop himself from bleeding out.

“Daeron!” Someone yells and that is the last thing that Daeron can remember.

* * *

Maglor holds Daeron as carefully as he can without nudging the arrow.

It is a rather difficult balancing act on the back of the horse but Maglor doesn’t dare stop yet for fear that whoever had attacked Daeron can keep pace with a horse.

Daeron keeps slipping in and out of consciousness. Every time he tries to fully awaken, Maglor shushes him gently, humming a soft Song of Power and sending as much comfort as he can across their still closed off bond.

Maglor will keep him safe.

* * *

His shoulder burns, his head hurts and it is very cold but those feelings are numbed by the sound of quiet harp playing.

Daeron blinks his eyes open.

Maglor sits cross-legged on a seat by the window, his harp balanced in his lap and he is hunched over it, his fingers drifting over the strings.

“Maglor?” He pushes himself upright with his good arm and rubs his forehead. Out of the window is a view from a tall mountain. “Where are we?”

Maglor shoots his head up. He very quickly uncurls himself and sets his harp down. “My brother’s fortress. How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve just been shot and drugged. Which brother?”

“Maedhros, at Himring. Do you want another blanket? It is perpetually freezing here.”

“Yes please.” Daeron pushes himself back against the pillows, wincing as his wound twinges. He is already covered in three blankets but there is still a creeping cold in his bones. “I…Did you see who attacked me?”

Maglor shakes his head as he opens the cupboard and searches through the shelves. “I think they left when I arrived. Probably bandits. I didn’t go after them.” He turns around with a blanket in his arms. “Your safety was more important.”

Warmth glows in Daeron’s stomach at the thought that Maglor cared so much about his wellbeing. It almost means the fourth blanket is unnecessary.

Maglor leans over and presses a kiss to his forehead. “I’ll just go get the healer.”

* * *

“So you just…came across him on the road?”

“Yes.” Maglor sips at his tea. “A rather lucky coincidence really.”

Maedhros rises an eyebrow. “Coincidence doesn’t exist,” He states abruptly and follows it up with nothing.

Maglor shrugs – he knows that Maedhros wants him to tell him the truth but Maglor doesn’t feel like having a lecture on being responsible about his emotions or something.

Maedhros sighs into the silence when it is clear that Maglor is not going to reply. “Thingol will be unimpressed if you have an actual romance with his son but I suppose that it can’t hurt relations too much if you have an open relationship.”

Maglor chokes on his drink. “Oh no, he doesn’t think of it like that. And anyway, I think he’s had some sort of argument with his father.”

“Alright.” Maedhros doesn’t sound like he trusts much of what Maglor said but he doesn’t say anything.

* * *

“Is your offer still open?”

Maglor looks up. His quill pauses over the paper scrawled with strange musical notation. “Which offer?” He asks, setting it down.

“About me coming back with you.” Daeron feels slightly uncomfortable inviting himself into someone else’s home.

Maglor’s eyes light up. “Of course! Does this mean you’ll come to the Gap with me when you are alright to travel?”

“If you will have me.”

“Yes!” Maglor grins. “I would love to have you! What made you change your mind?”

Daeron shrugs and grimaces as his wound pulls. “I do not know.”

“Won’t it cause a…what was it you said? Oh yes, a ‘political disaster’.” There is a small quirk of a smile on the other elf’s face.

_Tell him about your mother, tell him that you love him, tell him, tell him, tell him, tell him tell him tell him tellhimtellhimtellhimtellhimte-_

Daeron pushes the thoughts away, smiling blithely at him. “No-one will know I’m there. I’ll be Lindir your – secretary?”

“Can you even write?”

Daeron snorts a laugh. “Of course. I invented Cirth!”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I give you my condolences.” Daeron covers his mouth to cover a laugh at Maglor’s mock serious face. They’ve had this conversation before and Daeron knows that Maglor means very little offense. Maglor clears his throat. “I’ll ask you a better question. Can you even write a _good_ alphabet?”

“If by that you mean the curly monstrosity that is Tengwar, then yes. Yes I can.”

“Then I suppose a secretary wouldn’t go amiss. I know Aelineth would certainly appreciate it.”

Daeron feels his face fall slightly as he thinks of Maglor’s over-protective lieutenant. “I forgot about her.”

“She’s going to eviscerate you,” Maglor informs him breezily.

“Can I change my mind?”

“Nope. You’re stuck with me forever now.”

Maglor’s cheer is contagious and Daeron shares his smile for a moment before more serious matters come to mind. “Can we agree, before I come, that we don’t talk about the past?”

Maglor cocks his head. “Our past?”

“Just…the past. Of course we can talk about it sometimes, just not Doriath. I don’t…” He takes a deep breath, banishing thoughts of his mother from his mind. “It’s just I don’t have the happiest memories from when I left Doriath and I would prefer to not talk about it.”

“OK.” Maglor’s smile softens into something slightly comforting. “I’m fine with that. We can make an agreement that if what we’re talking about is uncomfortable, we can stop.”

Daeron nods. “That would be very nice.”

He wishes his mouth didn’t taste like he was lying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-Canon Names:  
> Laeglin - Greenfinch (Sindarin)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!
> 
> I’m here with chapter 5! Thank you to [oliviacat3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliviacat3/pseuds/oliviacat3) for beta’ing.  
> TW - implied child abuse hovering around the middle of this chapter.  
> And I hope you enjoy!

Daeron reels back, clutching his nose. Blood drips into his mouth.

The courtyard falls into a dead silence, broken a moment later by Maglor.

“Aelineth!” He exclaims and the lieutenant stands taller, her jaw jutted out defiantly as she stares him down.

“My lord.”

“That was highly uncalled for.” Maglor sounds furious but he keeps his voice low, aware of the people milling around, pretending not to be eavesdropping. Aelineth looks equally angry, although at Daeron not Maglor. “And very unprofessional.”

He hands the reins of his horse to a nearby stable boy and with a sharp word to Aelineth, marches into the house, hand firmly in Daeron’s. Aelineth hurries behind them.

Maglor spins around when they are finally alone. “Aelineth! What on all of Arda were you thinking?”

She scowls, crossing her arms defensively. “Protecting you.”

“I do not need protecting.”

“Clearly, you do. He…well, you know what he did.” She glares darkly at Daeron and he attempts to hide as far into the shadows as he can, fishing a handkerchief from an inside pocket to stem the bleeding. “Not to mention, no-one here will appreciate a Sinda Prince living so close to you. There will be mutterings.”

“There are always mutterings.”

“And they will grow with his presence! Do not be stupid Maglor.”

“I am not stupid, lieutenant.”

They glare at each other for a long, tense moment before Aelineth spins away. “I have work to do, _my Lord_. I shall take my leave.”

Maglor says nothing as she strides from the room.

* * *

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Maglor has to check before they go to sleep.

Daeron rolls his eyes. “Yes, Mags. That hasn’t changed in the last half hour.”

“I’m really sorry about Aelineth.”

“You’ve said. And you have no reason to be – she is completely in her right to be angry.”

“That doesn’t mean she should have acted on her aggression.”

Daeron shrugs. “She just wants to protect you.”

“I don’t need protecting.”

“You know, someone once told me that everyone needs protecting.”

Maglor smiles half-heartedly at that and they say goodnight before Maglor blows out the candle. He closes his eyes and gets lost in a memory.

_“Hey, Kano. What’s wrong?”_

_Makalaurë didn’t look up at his brother’s voice, keeping his eyes trained on the small figures of Tyelkormo and Carnistir sparring in the courtyard far below._

_“Ammë was arguing with Atto again. Curvo went after Atto and I wanted to cheer up Ammë with my new song – no-one’s heard it yet – but she yelled at me.”_

_The bed depressed under Maitimo’s weight and an arm tentatively wraps around his shoulders. Makalaurë leaned into it. “She apologised but I left anyway.”_

_Maitimo’s fingers worked their way into his hair, carefully undoing his braids. “I wish they’d get along again. It was all a lot simpler when they were happy. Now Ammë’s tired all the time and Atto is obsessed with anything that comes into contact with him and everyone’s on edge.”_

_Long, dexterous fingers stroked through Makalaurë’s hair and he and Maitimo sat together for a long moment._

_“I would like to hear your song, if you would be up for playing it to me.”_

_Makalaurë pulled away, looking up at his brother hopefully. “Really?”_

_Maitimo smiled back. “Of course.”_

_With bright eyes and light feet, Makalaurë jumped off the bed, thoughts spiralling in a completely new direction. “Let me just get my violin.”_

* * *

Maglor did not look like he wanted to let Daeron leave with Aelineth the next morning and Daeron had to send a pulse of _comfort/it’s alright/reassurance_ across their bond to get him to let go of his hand.

Maglor might have been onto something.

Aelineth has a grin on her face that makes Daeron uneasy. She says nothing and keeps her hand somewhere near the hilt of her sword at all times, occasionally sending a glance over her shoulder as if to make sure Daeron is still there.

They arrive at a door and Aelineth takes off a ring of keys to unlock it. Her grin grows as she pushes it open.

“This is the record room,” She declares and Daeron has a small heart attack as he gets a look inside.

There are walls and bookshelves and a single, large table in the middle with four chairs tucked in around it. It is absolutely covered in paper.

_Melian’s eyes swept over his room critically._

_Daeron stood by the foot of his bed, his hands folded neatly behind his back and his face carefully impassive._

_She glided further into the room, stroking along various surfaces and examining her fingertips. She pulled neatly ordered drawers open and closed them again and her perfectly elven body comes to rest before Daeron._

_“Acceptable. The room is up to standard,” She declared, stroking a gentle hand over Daeron’s cheek. He resisted the urge to lean into the touch. “But your hair is a little too blue to be Elven. Not quite worth punishment but endeavour to improve next time. We expect, after all, perfection. A prince of the Sindar does not falter or lose control of himself. Understood?”_

_Daeron bowed his head. “Of course Naneth.”_

“We just dump all records that are over five years old in here,” Aelineth explains cheerily, breaking Daeron from his recollections. “This room hasn’t been organised in over three hundred years. Your first task is to put the room into order.”

Daeron narrows his eyes. “How?”

“Pardon?”

* * *

“There’s been a spike in people being…” Losson trails off, struggling for words.

“Obnoxious.” One of his fellow majors says beside him. She frowns. “I know you _absolutely didn’t tell us_ to ignore people speaking Quenya and we are _absolutely not doing that_ but it is becoming harder and harder. They are really testing the limits.”

“And they keep making anything the soldiers try and do unnecessarily difficult.”

Aelineth gives him a knowing look that very clearly says ‘It’s Daeron’s fault’.

Maglor sighs, rubbing his forehead and looked at the line up of the six elves directly under Aelineth’s command.

“Thank you for your report,” Aelienth says and they are dismissed. “Maglor-”

“I know what you’re going to say. And I’ll reply as I always have – these problems have been here ever since the ban on Quenya. It is not Daeron’s fault.”

“But the problems have been exacerbated by his presence. He’s been here for two weeks and the disobedience has grown practically tenfold. The people think-”

Maglor growls, sitting up from where he had sunk down in his seat. “I know what they think Aelineth. You like to tell me every time we speak.”

“Then you know my concerns are legitimate. His mother is a Maia and you know what the Maia-”

“Oh not this again. I’ve told you-”

“-are known to use strange magics. The people’s worries have ground Maglor.”

“You _know_ me Aelineth. You would know if I was acting differently. _Your_ concerns _are_ illegitimate.”

She crosses her arms. “This would all be solved if you sent him from the city.”

“It wouldn’t. That is just wishful thinking.”

“So what _are_ you going to do about the dissent?”

Maglor purses his lips, avoiding her eyes. “I don’t know.”

* * *

“Done!” Daeron smiles, giving Aelineth back the key to the records room.

It only took three weeks of a lot of dust and writing and a lot of paper and now everything is neat and ordered and put away, with two bookshelves left empty for more documents if the need for them should arise.

Aelineth looks at the key disbelievingly. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. The documents are in date order and then alphabetically by category. Each year has it’s own separate box which are lined on the bookshelves.”

Aelineth still didn’t look as if she believed him.

* * *

“You are not allowed to ever get rid of him.”

“Pardon?” Maglor looks up from his most recent letter from Caranthir, speaking of Men who had found their way into his lands. “Who?”

“Daeron. He is not allowed to ever leave.”

“Well, this is a new turn of events. What made you change your mind?”

Aelineth takes a seat on the opposite side of his desk. “You know the records room?”

“The one we keep locked and ignore until the year is up and just dump all the paperwork from five years prior in? The one which we send new recruits to, to find some obscure piece of paper from years ago as punishment?”

“Yep. I asked him to tidy it up.”

“Aelineth, I told you not to-”

“Wait, wait, wait! Let me finish. I asked him to tidy it up. And he did. In less than three weeks. That’s three hundred years’ worth of paperwork. Just, all organised. I checked the first few boxes and true to his words it was all done by date and then alphabetically by category.”

Maglor narrows his eyes. “Where is he now?”

“Sorting through the correspondence room.” She sighs, looking rather bemused. “I thought all musicians were horrible with organisation.”

“You have met Finrod, correct?”

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”

“And Fingon?”

“Yeah.”

“And-”

“OK, OK, I get your point.” She laughs softly. “And I apologise. For suspecting him of possible subterfuge and for punching him.”

“Why are you apologising to me?”

“Just because I like him now does not mean he gets to know I like him now.”

* * *

“Teach me Quenya,” Daeron demands, walking into Maglor’s office.

Maglor starts, looking a little dazed.

“Were you in reverie?”

“No, of course not.” He yawns and blinks. “Quenya? I didn’t think that was the sort of thing Sindar elves were into.”

Daeron takes a seat on the opposite side of the desk, leaning over and taking Maglor’s hand, massaging the knuckles with his thumb. “I’ve heard that it’s a nice language to sing in.”

“It was practically _made_ to be sung in.” Maglor smiles. “And I would love to teach you.”

* * *

Maglor is laughing when Daeron appears in their bedroom that night.

“Oh no,” He says, stopping short in the doorway.

“Oh yes.” Maglor bites his lips against giggling hysterically. “Aelineth told me. The guards had _absolutely no idea_ what to do.”

“Oh no.” Daeron goes to turn away but Maglor catches his wrist.

“Don’t be worried,” He says and presses a kiss to Daeron’s lips. “I’m fairly certain public opinion of you has risen quite a significant amount.”

“I’m so glad.” Daeron looks at him with a deadpan.

Maglor giggles.

“I have to say, the report was quite amusing.”

“Really?” Daeron asks dryly, shutting the door. “I’m sure it was.”

“You yelled fuck in the middle of the square.”

“I dropped a stone on my foot. It’s understandable.”

“But in Quenya?”

The tips of Daeron’s ears have gone bright red. “I was practising,” He mumbles and Maglor bends over in peals of laughter again. The situation is probably not as funny as Maglor is making it out to be but he finds it hilarious and not much has made him laugh recently.

“You do not understand how much this has made my day.”

“I’m so happy for you.”

“It’s not so bad.” Maglor sobers up. “Seriously. I’m sure you know what the people think of you but now I’m sure they’ll see you in a much kinder light.”

“Really?” Daeron looks like he doesn’t much believe him.

“Really.” Maglor smiles. “We can go sing, if you want. I’ll teach you the Estalmë!”

* * *

Daeron returns his smile and takes his hand, letting Maglor drag him through the corridors to the small music room Maglor created.

It has tapestries hanging from all the walls and a large window in the far wall. In the centre is a table on which lies a collection of piles of wax that used to be candles; sheets of manuscript paper in complete disarray filled with unintelligible scribbles; and various musical instruments, set far more carefully on the wood than anything else.

Maglor makes a small noise of discontent.

“I forgot I left it like this this morning.” He sweeps forward, brushing the paper into a pile and depositing it into a large box on the floor in the corner. The candle stubs he pushes to one end of the table and the instruments he puts back on the low shelves encircling the room.

He turns around with a large smile, clutching his harp in his arms.

Daeron thinks that he looks beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya Translations:  
> Estalmë - Blessing of Estë


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!
> 
> I’m here with another chapter, two days after the last because I have been inspired! One comment on the last chapter (and I love all your amazing comments, they make me so happy!) has caught my attention (they might very well know who they are from the length of the reply I sent them) and I was thinking of maybe writing a one shot from Melian’s perspective. I was wondering if that was anything anyone was interested in?
> 
> Anyway, thank you to [oliviacat3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliviacat3/pseuds/oliviacat3) for being my amazing beta!
> 
> And I hope you enjoy!

_Kano,_

_Get here now. Rin is giving birth._

_Tye_

* * *

Daeron watches the slip of paper fall from Maglor’s hands.

“Shit,” He breathes, spinning towards Daeron. “I need to go. Now. Tell Aelineth I’ll be back as soon as possible but I don’t have high hopes for a hasty return.” He leans over and presses a kiss to Daeron’s lips.

Daeron snatches up the note from the floor and hurries after his husband. “Maglor, what on Arda-”

“My brother’s wife is giving birth.”

“What? But that’s-”

“Three months early? I know.” Maglor shoves his door open, snatching up a bag from his cupboard and throwing in some clothes. “Would you be a dear and get some food from the kitchens?”

“Of course. I’ll meet you at the stables.”

* * *

Maglor will be forever glad for the resilience of Valinor born horses.

He gets to the Pass of Aglon in less than three days, riding straight through the night and day and with the assistance of a not insignificant number of Songs of Power.

He is met at the gate by Nindineth, the young woman ringing her hands and looking rather lost.

“Lord Maglor.” She bows shortly. “Lord Maedhros is already here.”

“Rinwendë?” He asks, forgetting for a moment to use her Sindarin epessë.

Nindineth’s face pinches. “I do not know. She has been in labour for three days now. The healers do not know whether to try and halt it or let the birth continue naturally. The first is dangerous for her and the latter dangerous for the baby. I don’t…” She trails off. “I do not think they will both survive.”

“Do not fret, Lieutenant,” He says. “Keep your head clear and trust that the healers will know what’s best.”

* * *

Aelineth drops her tray opposite Daeron on the bench.

“I hear you have been doing alright in the absence of either Maglor or myself. Varda knows why you decided you were in charge.”

Daeron rolls his eyes, taking another spoonful of soup before answering. “Hello to you too. I didn’t make any such decision. When people couldn’t find you or Maglor they just came to me and I’m not incompetent.”

“Really?” There is a false surprise in her tone.

“I was raised a prince, if you remember. And I’ve spent enough time in the last few years practically buried in your organisational system to know how it works.”

She takes a bite of her sandwich and they sit in silence as they finish off their meal.

* * *

“Tyelko sit down.”

Celegorm gives Maedhros a dirty look and continues to pace, tugging sporadically at one or the other of his braids. Caranthir’s eyes flicker up and then back down at his work, an embroidered tunic. Amras huffs, slipping a knife out of his sleeve to sharpen it.

No-one makes a move to stop him.

Maedhros sighs ever so slightly, putting down his quill and flexing his hand before going back to writing whatever he’s writing.

Maglor’s fingers itch to pluck at the strings on his violin but he doesn’t dare get it out – Celegorm may snap his neck and the rest of his brothers are unlikely to appreciate the music. He stays on the sofa with his legs curled up tightly under his chin, the Music accompanied by an unfortunate buzzing in his ears.

* * *

“You don’t like me.”

Aelineth shrugs at Daeron’s accusation, continuing to sharpen her sword. “You kind of broke Maglor’s heart and as his Turamillë, it’s my duty to protect him from all forms of hurt. You are a potential form of hurt.”

Daeron blinks. “I…I broke his heart?” He asks, aware that his voice sounds very small.

Aelineth strikes her whetstone across her blade. “Well, at least you didn’t do it intentionally. Then I would have had to kill you.”

Daeron laughs nervously and rubs his forehead.

People’s hearts don’t break unless they are emotionally invested in the person who broke their heart.

“Does…does Maglor…love me?”

“You’d have to ask him.” She blows some hair out of her face. “But he did, before you abandoned him.”

Daeron breathes out very carefully, edging away, his head reeling.

Maglor loved him.

Maglor loves him?

And he…he loves Maglor too.

* * *

The door opens with barely a click but they are all so tense that they are on their feet in a moment.

Celegorm hurries forward.

Curufin looks utterly terrible – his hair is sticking out from his braid at odd angles, bruises are painted beneath his eyes and he has his horribly closed off expression masking his feelings. There is a bundle of blankets in his arms, held so tightly Maglor is slightly worried for the safety of what must be the child within.

“Curvo…” Celegorm begins, stopping just a step away from him.

“Midhwen will pull through,” He says in a completely monotone voice. “But the baby…the healers said I have to keep him warm.”

Amras silently walks over to the fireplace and coaxes a larger flame from the logs.

* * *

Daeron knocks on Aelineth’s closed office door.

There is a moment of shuffling and Daeron can hear cursing before he has to step back as Aelineth slips out of the room, locking the door behind her.

“Are you doing something illegal in there or something?”

She glares at him. “No. I just have a sense of privacy.”

He shrugs. “Sure. I believe you.”

“And you wonder why I didn’t like you. Now, what did you want?”

“You said something earlier that I was a bit too distracted to notice.”

“I said many things earlier.” Aelineth rubs her forehead and gestures for them to start walking down the corridor. Daeron is not sure where to but trusts Aelineth’s judgement. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“You said you were Maglor’s…Turamillë?”

“Oh. That. What did you want to know about it?”

“What is it?”

She blows a lock of hair out of her face, shoving her hands in her pockets. “Soon after someone is born, they have their naming ceremony. At it, their father gives them their Ataressë, which usually has some sort of relation to other family names – family cohesion and all; they are welcomed into their House, whatever that may be; and they are given two Turostari.”

“Yes, but what are they? What do they do?”

“I thought the name would be fairly self-explanatory.”

Daeron rolls his eyes. “Sure. So you protect them?”

“Yeah, I guess. Each child has one of each and they must not be related to the child in any degree less than the ninth, they must not be related to the other Turostar in any degree less than the ninth and they must not be the Turostar to any relative of the child in any degree less than the ninth – and don’t ask me why we chose the ninth degree, I really couldn’t tell you. At the ceremony you swear an oath of protection over the child. _Through fire and water, air and earth, I shall let nothing part us bar the chains of death. With my breath and my life I shall protect you_. It’s very serious.”

Daeron hums noncommittally. “So that’s why you’re his lieutenant?”

She laughs. “Oh no. I would have been his lieutenant regardless. But it was certainly a factor, I am sure.” She sends him a very sharp smile. “I am sure you have been turning over my words from earlier, so I hope you are now aware that I will eviscerate you and hang your corpse from a flagpole in warning it you so much as hurt a hair upon Maglor’s head.”

Daeron leant back just a tad, nodding effusively at her words.

“Good. Just so we’re clear.”

* * *

The room is very quiet.

Everyone is asleep, draped over various chairs, apart from Curufin who refuses to take his eyes off his tiny, tiny son and Maglor who wants to scratch his skin off as the urge to play music grows. Of course, he can’t leave his brother (he point blank refuses to do that) and he can’t play music, for his brothers dislike it when he idly plays, Curufin most of all.

He sits on his seat with his feet drawn up underneath him and hugs his knees, pulling at the cuffs of his sleeves in a way to stop the temptation to scratch at his wrists.

He keeps his eyes focussed on Curufin, who doesn’t move in his silent guard of his son.

“Kano, please stop that,” Curufin snaps and Maglor blinks, slightly taken aback. Curufin does not look up but Maglor can feel the sudden peak in anger.

“Doing what?”

“I don’t know! But you feel like you’re about to bloody explode.”

“Oh.” Maglor digs his fingers into the sleeves of his shirt. “I don’t-”

“Sing or something. That always seems to help.”

“But you don’t like it when I sing.”

“What on Arda gave you that idea?” Curufin takes in a shaky breath, daring to look up for a split second at his brother. “No-one could possibly dislike it when you sing.”

“But you’re always telling me to stop.”

“Because it’s distracting and we’re usually doing things. Right now, a bit of distraction might be nice.”

Maglor supposes there is truth in that.

* * *

“So, who’s the other one?”

Aelineth looks up as Daeron slips into the bench opposite her with a bowl of porridge in hand.

“The other what?”

“Turostar. There’s you but you said there was always another one.”

“Oh.” Aelineth leans forward, cupping her chin in one hand. “Elemmírë. One of the first-born and of the Vanyar. An elleth who stayed in Valinor. I don’t know her well but I heard she was good friends with Fëanor for a lot of his childhood but a rift formed between them soon after Maglor’s birth due to a new-found aversion to the Vanyar and the Valar by Fëanor and when she declared her intentions to marry his eldest half-sister. Maglor learnt to sing from her.” Her eyes refocussed. “You should stop being nosy. I shall tell you no more.”

“If you insist.”

“And my threat still stands.”

“Heard, loud and clear.”

* * *

Maglor begins singing a soft lullaby their father used to sing to them when they were little, thinking of babies and his little nephew, and it slowly amalgamates into a short ballad that Elemmírë had taught him during the beginnings of his apprenticeship.

He uncurls himself into a more comfortable position for singing, feeling lighter already. In his relief, he is not quite careful enough to heed the warnings of his teacher.

 _“Remember Makalaurë. You have a gift but all gifts can be curses. Don’t make this one yours_.”

The melody begins to warp and change into something unfamiliar and the words falling from his tongue are no longer entirely of his own creation.

He stands.

“Hey, Kano.”

There is something – a thrumming pulse in his ears as the Music pours out of his mouth.

“Maglor, you’re being freaky.”

The Music-

“Maedhros, wake up!”

-is in his ears-

“Maedhros!”

-in his soul.

He lets it take control.

* * *

Daeron is working on a report when Aelineth appears in the doorway, a grin on her face.

“Has someone I love died?” He asks, setting down the quill.

“No. _Better_. _You’ve_ died.”

On instinct, Daeron reaches over to his wrist to check his pulse before realising the true futility of this action. “What do you mean, I’ve died?”

“Exactly what I said.” She sets a letter on the table. “It was from Fingolfin. He heard through a chain of people and informed Maedhros. Maedhros’ lieutenant, Silifail, sent the message to me. I bet he didn’t think you were here.”

“I hate how happy this makes you.”

Her face falls slightly. “Why aren’t you reacting more?”

He shrugs. “Why did you think I was here?”

Her eyes narrow. “But why fake your death?”

“Who said _I_ was the one to fake it?”

“So who did?”

He grins at her, hiding a growing panic behind a nice little mask. “That’s my secret to tell.”

* * *

Maglor is jerked awake by a door banging open somewhere in the distance. His head pounds and everything is…fuzzy for lack of a better descriptor.

“Go back to sleep Kano,” Maedhros says, carding his fingers through his hair.

Maglor bats the hand away, pushing himself upright. He takes a moment to steady himself in this new position, blinking away the spots dancing in his vision. This is not the drawing room.

He tries to ask what happened but his throat closes up and refuses to let him speak.

 _Where?_ He asks with his shaky hands, using the symbols he knows from his childhood.

“A guest room in Curufin and Celegorm’s stronghold. That was really stupid Maglor.” Maedhros’ forehead is crinkled in disappointment but Maglor can’t remember what happened. “But the baby may survive now and no harm seems to be done.”

Maglor looks at him blankly and Maedhros sighs.

“Oh, yeah, you couldn’t remember last time either. What’s the last thing you can recall?”

He shrugs and makes the sign for sick and baby.

“Do you remember the time when Elemmírë brought you back to our house unconscious? Well, not the bringing back, but the waking up afterwards.”

Maglor hesitates, thinking, and then nods.

“Elemmírë warned you not to do it again but you did. I still have no idea what it was but I think it saved the baby’s life.”

Maglor nods, not really listening.

“Don’t beat yourself up about it Mags.” Maedhros presses a kiss to his forehead. “If you’re feeling up to it, we can go join the others for some food. And Midhwen woke up while you were out.”

Maglor gives his brother a shaky smile which drops as soon as the door closes behind him.

* * *

“I never thanked you.”

Maglor looks over from where he is saddling Laeglin to see Curufin standing with his arms crossed.

“It was nothing.” He gives him a small smile and Curufin glowers.

“It was something and you know it. I could feel the raw power you projected at the time and you’ve been depressed all this month. Maglor-”

“It’s fine.” Maglor’s voice cracks and he is aware that he sounds slightly desperate.

Curufin blinks. “If you’re sure.”

Maglor nods. “I am. Say goodbye for me.”

“Maedhros will be angry if you go without saying anything.”

“Maedhros is always angry. He has a lot of repressed rage.”

Curufin snorts a laugh. “I’ll tell them you say goodbye. Have a safe trip.”

* * *

Maglor smiles as he spots Daeron waiting in the courtyard. He passes off his reins to a stable girl and dodges past a few people until he is right next to him.

Daeron wants to reach up and kiss him but they are in public.

“I’m so happy to see you.” He says, opting instead for a tight embrace. “I’ve had to spend a month only in Aelineth’s company and it was not fun. That woman has it out for me, let me tell you.”

Maglor laughs and there is a note of something – hysteria, maybe, or exhaustion or relief – in it that Daeron can’t quite place. “I missed you.”

A moment later, Daeron has to practically peel Maglor off him. “Come on, you can bathe because frankly, you smell disgusting, and then we can talk over supper.”

* * *

“You didn’t sleep last night.”

There is no accusation in Daeron’s tone, only concern.

“And you haven’t slept for the last four nights. Something’s wrong.”

Maglor hadn’t been able to focus on the report he was attempting to write anyway.

“It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

Daeron hesitates for a moment before taking a step forward. “We’re married, aren’t we? Your worries should be mine.”

Maglor freezes. “But it isn’t…we’re only…what?”

Daeron’s face is the most open Maglor has seen it since they first met.

“OK.” Daeron takes in a steadying breath. “In your absence, I came to a realisation. I would…that is to say, my feelings do not matter, I-”

Maglor stands abruptly, cutting him off, taking his hands. “Your feelings matter. Of course your feelings matter. It would be horrible of me to claim otherwise.”

* * *

“That’s not…I was trying to say that I wanted to say before I told you-” Daeron can’t quite get out that he doesn’t want anything to change if Maglor does not return his feelings but he can’t quite muster up the words.

“Just tell me. No caveats.” Maglor looks at him, with so much care in his eyes.

“I love you. You are the most dear thing to my heart.”

Maglor drops his hands and Daeron closes his eyes, tensing up for – well, he didn’t quite expect Maglor to hit him, but there is clear dismissal.

So he doesn’t love him anymore.

“You love me?”

“Yes. Of course, nothing has to change, I just felt it good to get it out in the open. I’ll be going now, I have things to-”

He is cut off by a gentle kiss to his lips.

Daeron opens his eyes to see Maglor look up at him with adoration in his eyes.

“I love too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-Canon Names:  
> Nindineth - Slender Bride (Sindarin)  
> Rinwendë - Dew Maiden (Quenya)  
> Midhwen - Dew Maiden (Sindarin)  
> Silifail - Bright White Radiance (Sindarin)
> 
> Quenya Translations:  
> Epessë - After-Name  
> Turamillë - Shield Mother  
> Ataressë - Father-Name  
> Turostari - Shield Parents  
> Turostar - Shield Parent


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!
> 
> Chapter 7! Woo! The working title of this was ‘Maglor Performs An Exorcism’ and that is all you need to know.
> 
> Thank you to [oliviacat3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliviacat3/pseuds/oliviacat3) for beta’ing at short notice again.  
> And I hope you enjoy!

“Curufinwë III has an amilessë now.”

Daeron looks up at Maglor reading through the letter from his brothers.

“That’s good – I don’t think we can keep calling him Curufinwë III. What is it?”

“Midhwen called him Tyelperinquar.” Maglor snorts. “Celebrimbor in Sindarin.”

“What’s so funny?” Daeron pushes his manuscript paper away and crawls further along the sofa to settle closer to his husband.

“Celegorm has some choice words about Midhwen’s name choosing.” Maglor puts down the letter down. “He’s been thoroughly pissed off at the moment – and no, don’t ask me why! I don’t know either and Curufin refuses to say anything in _his_ letters either.”

“I don’t think it’s possible for him to talk about anything other than his son.”

Maglor laughs, turning his head to press a kiss to the tip of Daeron’s nose. “That is very true,” He says as Daeron accidentally goes cross-eyed. He folds the letter back up and returns it to its envelope, picking up another. “Now, let’s see what Caranthir has to say.”

There is a moment of silence and Daeron leans against Maglor’s shoulder, listening to his soft breaths and the occasional rustle of paper.

“Huh.” Daeron glances up at Maglor’s soft exclamation of surprise. “Caranthir’s…getting married. I…well, that’s unexpected.”

“That’s good though?”

“Yes.” Maglor lets his hands rest in his lap. “I’m very glad for him.”

Daeron thinks that he doesn’t sound very glad. He pushes himself upright. “What’s wrong Mags?”

Maglor blinks. “Nothing. Nothing, I just…” He turns around to face Daeron fully. “I just didn’t know he had anyone he was interested in, let alone someone he would be betrothed to. It’s…odd. We used to all know everything the others were doing and now we’re all split up and I barely know what’s going on with any of them.”

Daeron reaches out and takes his hand, stroking the knuckles gently. He can vaguely recall Nellas doing this when he was little and it had always calmed him down.

Maglor relaxes slightly. “It’s not so bad. I’ll see them at the wedding, I suppose. If I’m invited.”

“Of course you’ll be invited. You’re his brother and no amount of time or distance will change that.” Daeron says firmly as a plan begins to form in his mind.

“On an unrelated note,” Maglor begins, cutting Daeron out of his thoughts. “It’s the anniversary of our wedding in three days. Since we’ve admitted that we love each other I thought that maybe we might…”

Daeron grins, pulling back a bit so that he can catch Maglor’s lips properly.

“Is that yes?” Maglor asks a moment later, a tad breathlessly.

“Of course.” Daeron leans back in to cuddle up against Maglor. “While the entire thing was rather traumatic, I did rather enjoy myself and I won’t ever regret marrying you.”

He can feel Maglor’s joy across their bond followed by faint embarrassment. “You know, I can’t exactly… _remember_ our…wedding. I was…really, _really_ drunk at the time.”

Daeron tugs gently at the collar of Maglor’s tunic. “Y’know, I could help you remember. It wouldn’t be too much trouble on my part at all.”

“Really?” Maglor asks dryly but very enthusiastically reciprocates.

* * *

“Is that all?” Maglor asks as his loremaster comes to the end of her monthly report.

Tegoluin adjusts the bright blue feather sticking out of her bun. “No my Lord. I should like to petition the return of Quenya, at least in written form. It is a detriment to my work to have to translate everything when I require it and the translation often misses out on important nuance. Not to mention the culture that we are losing through this ban.”

Maglor sighs. “I would love to accept your proposal but my brother’s order still stands and I cannot go against it.”

The nís frowns but does not argue. “Of course my Lord. That was all.”

“Thank you.”

She bows shortly and takes her leave of the hall.

“That’s all for today,” Aelineth says. “You should be free this afternoon – there’s a very nice spot to the west. Very romantic.”

“I don’t think you have a romantic bone in your body.”

“You would be correct; the idea of a relationship of any sort actually physically repulses me. But I heard from Erestor that it was very nice. He and Glorfindel stopped there when he came to visit me.”

Maglor makes a face, standing up. “I know what my cousin’s idea of romantic is and it is not something that overly appeals to me.”

“Ah well, I suppose I shall stay out of that side of my life.”

“Please. I love you but stick to what you know. I’m sure we’ll all enjoy it more.”

Aelineth opens her mouth to say something but it cut off by Daeron skidding through the open doors of the Hall.

“Dae!” Maglor meets his husband halfway as Daeron runs up the room, distress shining in his eyes.

“Hide me,” He says, his hand in Maglor’s shaking. “Beleg’s here and he had _her_ in his eyes and he’s going to kill me!”

“Hey, hey, calm down.”

Daeron shakes his head, tugging at his hand. “You don’t – he’s going to be here and he’s-” He hiccups and Maglor realises he is crying. “And I don’t – you can’t see me.”

“Why not?”

Daeron shakes his head.

“Daeron-”

“No! Please, Maglor, I-”

Maglor purses his lips and nods at Aelineth.

“We have a hiding hole behind the dais for emergencies, if you truly feel in such danger.”

Aelineth leads him away and Maglor watches him go in concern. The hidden door is closed and then there is a sharp knock.

Maglor turns sharply, aware of Aelineth striding to flank his right shoulder. A guard stands in the doorway.

“A delegation from Doriath, my Lord, lead by Marchwarden Beleg Cúthalion.” The guard bows and turns sharply, marching away.

Maglor stands taller, taking a split second to clear his mind and assess the situation.

Doriath.

So, Doriath sent a party here – to return their Prince from his perceived Ñoldor kidnappers? But Daeron seemed convinced they were going to kill him.

“Lord Maglor.” The leader – a tall, silver-haired ellon with sharp features who Maglor assumes to be Beleg Cúthalion – sweeps an almost familiar empty gaze over him. “A good morning to you.”

“And to you, Beleg of Doriath. What brings you so far from your home?”

The small host is very well armed and Maglor is aware of the lack of his sword at his hip. Or, indeed, any weapon at all – except his harp, which lies on the table, too far away to reach if this should end in a fight. Maglor dearly hopes that it does not. The Marchwardens of Doriath are warriors of the highest calibre and the close confines of the fortress is more like the woods that they thrive in than the open fields the Ñoldor are more familiar with. Maglor does not want _anyone_ dead or hurt if he can help it.

“We are hunting a traitor.”

Maglor lets the faintest traces of surprise show over his features. “Well, there are no traitors here, I assure you. We do not look kindly on those who cannot show faith to their own kin.”

Beleg smiles and it is not a nice smile. He continues to assess him with his cold, empty eyes. “I find that difficult to believe, considering your own treachery on the streets of Alqualondë.”

Maglor stares evenly back at the other elf. “Some may say they were the ones who were treacherous.” Maglor does not believe this, the words that Curufin used to repeat when they still camped under starlight on the shores Lake Mithrim. It tastes like lies and ash upon his tongue but he is going to win this argument through any means necessary for he will not risk the lives of his people nor the life of his husband.

“Some may.” Beleg very slightly inclines his head, acknowledging the end of that debate. “But the point remains that you may not know that he is a traitor. We believed for a long while that he had been killed and did not wish to spread the news of his betrayal for fear of discontent.”

“Very wise,” Maglor says in a way that says that he doesn’t think this was a good idea at all.

“Yes.” Beleg’s voice is tight at the interruption. “We came to warn you and to take the traitor from your lands so that you should no longer have to worry about him.”

“And who is this traitor?”

“Daeron Tifanto Údhron.”

Maglor struggles for a moment to keep his face straight. “Ah,” Is all he says as his brain works rapidly to store this new information.

What the _fuck_ had Daeron done for his parents to both disown him _and_ call him a traitor?

“It is very serious, as you can see. I apologise, of course, if he has found a way into your heart and been attempting to sabotage your own land.”

Maglor nods.

“Can you tell us where he is? We will take him off your hands for you.” Beleg stares at him with his uncomfortable eyes as Maglor thinks for a long, long moment, unsure exactly on what to do.

 _Do not trust them_ , comes across his bond with Aelineth. _Daeron loves you and would not harm you. They are the liars_.

This brought up whole new issues but not for now.

Unless…

Maglor remembers where he has seen that emptiness in the eyes before and makes his decision.

“No,” He says softly, folding his hands loosely behind his back and wandering over to the table. “I shall do no such thing. Any traitor that has wormed it’s way into my realm shall be dealt with by me personally. You had your opportunity. Guards, leave us and close the doors behind you.” He gives Beleg a short look. “You should dismiss your own men too.”

Beleg looks back at him evenly before nodding, saying something shortly in an unfamiliar language.

“What do you plan, Lord Maglor?” He asks, crossing his arms as the large doors close.

Maglor ignores him. “Lieutenant, if you would.”

The look Aelineth gives him is furious. After a moment of hesitation, as she spins on heel and reveals the hidden door, opening it with jerky movements.

“I would like it to be known that I do not approve,” She says, taking a step into the darkness.

It takes a lot of self-control for Maglor not to flinch at the look Daeron gives him, betrayal and utter fury all mixed together, and his hair is black and starry in nature and his skin has gone a snowy white and reflective, more like the pearls Finrod loves to wear than skin. Maglor tries to send something across their bond but it is tightly shut off.

Maglor picks up his harp from the table.

“What are you doing?” Beleg asks, taking a step forward and reaching for his sword.

Maglor rolls his eyes, stress making it rather difficult to focus on good negotiation skills. “Do you _see_ any other weapon for me to use? I am a minstrel not a soldier.”

Beleg seems to accept this, standing down.

Maglor perches on the edge of the table and begins to play.

* * *

Daeron has only felt like this when his mother had thrown him into the cell under Menegroth, cold fury and betrayal and confusion mixing together into something that would usually send his Maia powers haywire unless they were dampened by his mother as they had been that day.

But there is also a sort of numbness deep in his soul at the indifference in Maglor’s eyes and the way he almost carelessly picks up his harp and that has a very similar effect.

The first few chords are tentative, matching the same few notes in the Music.

Daeron feels Aelineth’s loose hands around his wrists tighten involuntarily before they fall away completely. It is little comfort that she is on his side.

He tenses, squeezing his eyes shut, waiting for the first twist of whatever it is Maglor is planning, but it never comes.

Instead, Beleg – _no_ , his mother in Beleg’s skin – screams.

Daeron spins around, his eyes flying open. Maglor sits on the table, seemingly unaware of the excruciating pain the Doriathrin was in as he plays along to the Music. Daeron is torn for a moment but makes his decision as Aelineth skids to kneel beside the screaming Marchwarden.

Maglor’s voice joins the harp and it takes on an ethereal form, as if many voices are singing instead of one. The harp and voice soar together and Daeron can see the intention of the music.

To remove the second Fëa from Beleg’s Hröa.

Maglor stands and looks up sharply, the music changing subtly in key, a sign a true battle has begun. He glows with the same light that Daeron has seen trapped in his father when he is free of Melian’s enchantments.

Daeron watches and listens, not daring to interrupt or join in, for fear it will break whatever it is that Maglor is doing, and then…

The music stops and Beleg collapses to the floor like a ragdoll.

The glowing around Maglor fades away and he sways on the spot, gripping his harp tightly to his chest. His eyes flicker around for a moment before landing squarely on Daeron.

“Are you OK?” He asks, taking a step forward and stopping abruptly as the swaying increases. “I’m sorry. I didn’t – I believed you, I swear, but I had to have a good reason to start playing the harp so that I could get the Enemy out of him. I didn’t want to hurt you, I promise. I-”

Daeron shushes him, crossing the distance between them swiftly and helping him to sink to the floor. “It’s alright Mags. I don’t mind. Beleg-” He pauses, looking over at the limp body of one of his oldest guardians. “Beleg is very dear to me. I am glad you helped him.”

“Good.” Maglor leans forward and rests his head against Daeron’s shoulder. “I‘ll try and tell you next time.”

Daeron strokes his back comfortingly as he feels him begin to drift off.

“Can you carry him?” Aelineth asks, walking over with Beleg thrown over her shoulder. “I’m taking this one to the Healers Wing and then I’m going to attempt to stop the rest of his group from committing murder.”

Daeron huffs a short laugh. “I’ll wait until you have them distracted. They may not react well to seeing me.”

“Good point.” She turns to go. “You know, I’m glad you weren’t a traitor. You’re starting to grow on me and it would be a pity to have to kill you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-Canon Names:  
> Tegoluin - Blue Pen/Blue Quill (Sindarin)  
> Údhron - Parentless (Sindarin)
> 
> Quenya Translations:  
> Amilessë - Mother Name  
> Fëa - Soul  
> Hröa - Body
> 
> Sindarin Translation:  
> Ellon - Male Elf


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!
> 
> Chapter 8! Important notice for this chapter - the word glavril is the closest I could get to Magpie in Sindarin. Through my research, I found that the 'Mag' part means something like Chatterer so I used the verb Glavra- (to chatter) and that the 'pie' part of the word meant something similar to sharp or pointed (possibly in reference to their tails) so I used the suffix -il which means point. In Quenya, I got it as something like Nyartillë - Nyar- meaning to talk and tillë meaning tip or point. This is for you, lovely commenter.
> 
> Thank you as always to [oliviacat3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliviacat3/pseuds/oliviacat3) for beta'ing.
> 
> TW - the second half of this chapter has quite a bit of self-harm and depression. 
> 
> And I hope you enjoy!

Daeron takes Maglor to their bedroom – he is no healer but he has a reasonable understanding of how tiring channelling the music is for him, a half Maia, and makes the fairly logical jump that Maglor, who is only an elf, has merely exhausted himself.

Daeron lies his husband on the bed, struggles for a moment on the clasps of Maglor’s outer robes and boots before he pulls off the outer layers, leaving Maglor only in his tunic and leggings. A bit more manoeuvring and Daeron has the other ellon tucked under the sheets.

There is a knock on the door just as Daeron has settled in the armchair by the fire – tilted at just the right angle so that he can keep an eye on the bed – and taken out flute.

He sighs. “What is it Aelineth?”

There is a shuffling. “Bethren Daeron?”

Daeron tenses, gripping his flute involuntarily tighter. “Who is it?” He asks coldly, standing and edging towards the knife that hangs on the wall.

“Oropher Galadúathion. And my brother Amdír is here too.” Daeron untenses in relief. Grandchildren of Elmo. “We came with Beleg but we don’t want to kill you.”

Daeron hides a soft laugh at the almost childishness of the statement as he crosses the room. “I’m sure you don’t.”

Despite the clear youth in the Oropher’s voice and the fact of his lineage, Daeron still has the dagger in his hand as he opens the door.

Standing there are two young elves both with silvery-gold hair and bright green eyes. The left one steps back – he takes after his father more than his brother. His skin is paler, his stature taller and he has freckles covering his cheeks and his collar bones, visible due to the open nature of the very Sindarin neckline.

The right one uncrosses his arms, shaking his long braid over his shoulder. “I’m Oropher,” He says in a way of greeting, bowing shortly. “I’m – we’re – your cousins.”

Daeron smiles, leaning against the doorframe and tucking the knife into his belt. “I assumed as much. Do you claim to be non-violent?”

“Of course. You’re our family.”

“You were in a group who very much intended to kill me.”

Amdír looked rather uncomfortable but Oropher stared back at him. “We weren’t going to kill you. We kept putting in false leads and if the situation arose where an attempt on your life was made, then we were going to rescue you. I had thirteen contingency plans.”

“Not bad. Though I still do not see why you would commit treason on my part. You have a family back in Doriath and I would want to go back to them if I were you.”

A shadow passes over Amdír’s face and Oropher’s expression tightens minutely.

“We don’t have anyone at home.”

Daeron purses his lips. “Ah. So you were running away?”

“Yes. You were our best shot at family.”

This is worrying – when Daeron was last in Doriath, just over three hundred years ago, his aunt Elmo had three children well and alive. Three of his cousins are dead or missing then, if they were unable to take care of these two.

Daeron sighs, pushing himself upright. “You may stay here, if you so desire. I see no reason to leave family in the cold.” Nor to send them back to that witch. “I am certain my husband will not mind.”

Maglor owed him one anyway, for terrifying him as he had.

“Your husband?” Oropher cocks his head curiously.

“Yes. Maglor Fëanorion.”

A series of emotions flit across both boys faces, Oropher’s settling on a painted indifference and Amdír’s on anger.

“But he killed people!”

Daeron did not flinch. “I know. Did you really think I wouldn’t? I live here.”

There are footsteps coming down the corridor and Tegoluin strides around the corridor. “Right. My lord. Beleg awoke. He wishes to see you, if you would be amicable to it.”

Daeron bows his head. “Since when did you run messages?”

Tegoluin frowns. “I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Aelineth is harried and she cares not for your station when she’s harried.”

Daeron snorts. “You’re right there. Would you be able to look after my cousins for me?”

“We don’t need looking after!”

“They’re new here.”

“Of course.” A smile tugs at Tegoluin’s lips, a sign that she has just had an ill-advised plan. “Certainly a good way to get out of the way of Aelineth and I know the city about as well as anyone can. May I know their names?”

“We’re _right here_.”

“Oropher and Amdír.” Daeron finally acknowledges their presence. “Oropher, Amdír, this is Loremaster Tegoluin. Now I will take my leave. Thank you for bring the message Tegoluin.”

She gives him a mock salute as he leaves and Daeron has to wonder if it was a requirement to be vaguely obnoxious to your superiors if you were Ñoldorin.

* * *

_“Chin up,” Elemmírë said, gently tilting Makalaurë’s chin up. “You’ll do wonderfully.”_

_Makalaurë clutched his harp to his chest, biting his lip, a habit he had got from his older brother._

_“You know music, Tinwilin. Better than some of them, I am sure.”_

_Makalaurë shook his head. “’Don’t wanna do it.”_

_Elemmírë pursed her lips. “I’m not going to make you but if you want your mastery, you’re going to have to.”_

_Makalaurë shook his head again, fear and anxiety that he had been shoving down for months now bubbling up and threatening to choke him. He blinked back tears furiously. He was being stupid – he loved singing and playing and he had never cared before now._

_He was drawn into a gentle embrace. “Come on Tinwilin. Didn’t Maitimo say that he was going to take you for something to eat later?”_

_Makalaurë nodded._

_“And your father and mother will be really proud when they get to watch you.”_

_“Not if I mess up.”_

_“You won’t mess up. I’ll be right there in the front row. You’ve practised these songs a million times and they’re all yours.”_

_“No-one will realise if I make a mistake unless I let it show.”_

_“Exactly. You have it all down.” She pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. “Go on. I have complete faith in you.”_

_Makalaurë loosened his death grip on the harp and relaxed his shoulders, taking in a few deep breaths. The panic that had been coursing through his veins a moment ago was slowly bleeding out into the air around him. “Alright.”_

_He pushed the harp into Elemmírë’s arms. “I’m going to do it. I’m ready.”_

_Elemmírë grinned proudly. “Good. I’m proud of you already.”_

The memory fades into the darkness of Maglor’s bedroom. The embers in the fire are low as he blinks his eyes open.

He sighs, a headache pounding behind his eyes.

For once, his recollection of the events leading are were nearly crystal clear. Probably a side effect of actually intending to channel the music instead of falling into it when he least expects it.

The new moon is just visible in the sky if Maglor squints – early morning then.

Daeron must be angry at him as he isn’t sleeping next to him as he should be in the middle of night.

He sighs again, letting himself fall into reverie.

* * *

“Dae.” Beleg turns from the window.

He is dressed in one of the simple medical robes that Healer Aithien insisted everyone in her healing wing wear and it is rather disconcerting to see him in something Ñoldor, with high collars, long sleeves and more fitting than the Sindar typically wear.

“Beleg. I missed you.”

Beleg is hesitating to make a move. Waiting, as he might, to see if the rabbit will run or not. To see whether he should let his arrow loose or hold his fire.

Daeron takes a few steps forward and wraps his arms around his friend. He feels Beleg relax under his arms as he returns the embrace.

“I missed you too, Glavril.” Beleg rests his chin on Daeron’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t keep her out.”

Daeron pulls away. “What are you going to do now? Will you be staying? Oropher and Amdír have already found me and I’m letting _them_ stay.”

Beleg smiles, a tad sadly. “I can’t Dae. I’m very glad you’re going to be looking after your cousins – they’re good boys – but I must return. I need to look after your sister and father.”

For a moment, the desire to beg Beleg to stay very nearly chokes him. Daeron swallows it down – he will not begrudge sweet Lúthien another bodyguard. She is in far more danger than he is.

“But you will stay for a night at least.”

“Of course. Is your husband alright?”

Daeron nods. “He’d better be – but he does need to sleep it off. But supper. Come.”

* * *

Maglor wakes to sun streaming through the window and a familiar itch under his skin.

He closes his eyes again.

He doesn’t…he doesn’t want to deal with _that_ today.

He thought it had gone. It _should have gone_. He sang and that had always got rid of it before. It had become so irregular.

He tightens his hands into fists and looks over to Daeron for a bit of comfort and finds him not there.

Oh, right. He closes his eyes. Daeron is angry at him because he’d betrayed him.

His fingers find their way to the back of his wrists and he finds that he doesn’t care to stop them.

Daeron is right to be angry at him – he should have been angry at him before this had happened. Maglor had killed his kin.

Maglor is a horrible person who left his brother and king in the hands of evil and burnt ships and killed his brother and abandoned his own people to a terrible, harrowing journey across a wilderness that killed so many of them.

He’s taken an oath that weighs on him and that will consume his soul and send him to everlasting darkness.

He deserves this pain and he doesn’t deserve Daeron.

The door opens.

“Morning Mags,” Daeron says cheerily. “I felt you were awake and I brought some breakfa-oh hey, what are you doing?”

The bed depresses as Daeron climbs on, his hands coming to pull Maglor’s hands apart.

“Don’t do that.”

Maglor relents at Daeron’s gentle touch, his limbs loose and at Daeron’s control.

“What the hell Mags?”

Maglor shrugs. It’s just another reason for Daeron to hate him.

“I don’t hate you,” Daeron says forcefully. “I love you remember. Those two things are mutually exclusive.”

“No they’re not. My parents hated each other but they were definitely still in love.”

“We are not your parents. Wait there for a moment.”

Maglor lies listlessly on the bed as Daeron stands and walks away, returning a moment later with a medicine box.

“Right, sit up for me.”

Maglor pushes himself upright, hunching slightly over his knees as Daeron begins to bind his arms. His face is carefully impassive as he does so.

“Why were you doing that Maglor?”

“I wanted it out and I deserve it.”

“What is ‘it’?”

“I don’t know.” He pauses. “It’s always been there. It’s usually better after I sing.”

“OK.” Daeron ties off the end of one of the bandages. “Why do you deserve it? I don’t think you do.”

“I’m a horrible person. I’ve _killed_ people Dae. Actual people with lives and families and I just killed them for some stupid boats and a stupid oath.” Maglor is vaguely aware of his body faintly tremoring. “And then we burnt them. They were beautiful – the most amazing thing built by the Teleri – but we destroyed them at my father’s whim. Pityo-”

He cuts off, unable to continue for a moment.

“Pityo was on them. No-one…no-one checked.” He’s full on shaking now. “And we left Fingolfin and his host on the other side of the sea. We naïvely believed my father when he said that Fingolfin would turn back and they’d be safe. Or we didn’t but we didn’t care. Then Atto died and I watched him die and he told us to keep the oath and I don’t want to, sometimes. Sometimes I want to leave it behind. But how can I, when it was his dying wish?”

He swallows back a sob but couldn’t stop the tears. He hates it and he doesn’t deserve it.

“Maedhros left and he made me _promise_ that I wouldn’t come after him but I should have. Tyelko and Moryo and Telvo and Curvo all said I should have. They all told me and…and I should have caved and listened to them and not waited until Finno appeared and did what I should have done.”

* * *

Daeron ties the other bandage off before reaching up and cupping Maglor’s face in one hand, brushing the tears off his cheeks. “I love you, Maglor. You have done horrible things but you _know_ they were horrible. You see what you did and you do not want to do it again. You feel guilt and remorse for your actions. That makes you a far better person than you give yourself credit for.”

“You shouldn’t love me,” Maglor says, pulling away from Daeron’s hand. “I’m broken. I hurt myself: no good, whole elf wants to do that. Not even _Maedhros_ does and he’s been in the hands of the Enemy.”

“You’re _not_ broken.” Daeron’s take Maglor’s hands in his own. “You love me, right?”

“Of course! You’re…you’re amazing and beautiful and you have the loveliest voice.”

“I think someone’s only truly broken if they can’t love. If there is nothing in their heart but anger. So you’re _not_ broken, OK?”

Daeron watches Maglor swallow and nod, something like hope or relief shining in his eyes. Daeron doesn’t know how long this has been going on for – how long Maglor has been feeling like this – but he thinks that it has probably been a while.

“Do you want to eat some breakfast? There’s some fruit – the Doriathrim brought it with them. It’s very good.” He leans over to retrieve the tray from where he put it on the floor.

Maglor takes the gwennodath one at a time from the bowl as Daeron speaks about what he has been hearing from supper with not only Beleg, but also Oropher, Amdír and Aelineth, and Tegoluin who Oropher insisted must come with them too.

“…and so your problems with the Quenya ban should soon be fixed.”

Maglor laughs softly. “We’ll see. I’m afraid I must bow to Maedhros in most situations.”

Daeron smiles at the glimmer of happiness he has managed to conjure. “This might not end up being most situations.” He leans forward and presses a kiss to his husband’s forehead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-Canon Names:  
> Galudúathion - Son of Galudúath (Sindarin)  
> Tinwilin - Star Bird (Quenya)  
> Aithien - Thorn Woman (Sindarin)  
> Glavril - Magpie (Sindarin)
> 
> Sindarin Translations:  
> Ellon - Male Elf  
> Bethren - Male Cousin (Formal)  
> Gwennodath - Maiden Berries


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!
> 
> Welcome to chapter 9! The end of the first arc of the story!
> 
> Thank you to [oliviacat3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliviacat3/pseuds/oliviacat3) as ever for beta'ing!
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Daeron says goodbye to Beleg at midday as Maglor has fallen back to sleep.

He keeps his words short and his affection to himself as he is very aware of the curious looks of the other Doriathrim.

Oropher and Amdír have already made their excuses as to why they are not coming back to Doriath and taken their leave with Tegoluin, who has all but monopolised the pairs time. Daeron dreads to think what she is planning.

Aelineth excuses herself once the Doriathrim have vanished into the crowd along the main street but Daeron continued to stand there a moment longer, revelling in the atmosphere of the main square.

It is busy and there are people yelling and the music is happy and jolly.

He is glad, he thinks suddenly, that he is not going back with Beleg. He would miss this – this real life – if he had to go back to the pretence behind the girdle.

He smiles before turning around and making his way to his bedroom.

“Hey Mags,” He says, knocking on the door before coming in.

Maglor blinks his eyes open and smiles sleepily at him. “Hey Dae.”

“I was going to play something. It’s been a hectic few days and I haven’t had a chance recently. Would you like to come? We haven’t played together for a really long time.”

Maglor looks dejected for a split second before his face smooths back into a smile and he pushes himself upright, yawning. “That’d be nice.”

* * *

Maglor had forgotten how much he loved to play with Daeron.

Even as far back at Mereth Aderthad, when they had been playing against each other, it had given Maglor thrill he had left back in Valinor before the darkening. Since the Trees were destroyed, everything Maglor had played had had a _reason_ – to create light, to keep people’s spirits up, to lament the past.

But that? There was nothing riding on it. Not their people’s fate, not their people’s wellbeing. Just playing music for the sake of playing music.

It is wonderful to play for no other reason than to play and it is even more wonderful to play with Daeron. Daeron, who hears the Music and who Maglor loves dearly and with whom Maglor is so in tune with they can play together without needing to prompt the other.

Daeron plays his flute and Maglor the violin.

Or fiddle, they have had an argument about its exact name at least four times now.

They are disturbed by Aelineth.

“My lords,” She says, pushing the door open without knocking. “Supper is ready. I’ve come to get you since you managed to miss lunch.”

Maglor blinks. “Oh. Did we? I’m sorry.”

She waves a hand. “It’s fine. I forgot to tell the cook that we have two new residents so they ate your portions. But I would prefer it if you didn’t both fade away.”

“Of course.” Maglor uncurls himself from his seat. “We’ll be right there.”

He is feeling…brighter than he has in a long time, Maglor decides as he puts his violin back in its case and links arms with Daeron.

The darkness is still simmering under his skin, he is sure, but for now it is quite content to stay there and not worm its way into his head.

* * *

It has been a very long morning listening to reports about the state of the farms in the surrounding area and it is late afternoon when they finish – without, Daeron thinks moodily, coming to any sort of satisfactory solution to the oncoming drought that their seers had foreseen.

He and Maglor and Aelineth had been planning on going to lunch except that Tegoluin comes in as they are just about to leave, followed by Daeron’s cousins who are dragging a very large trolley filled with paper behind them.

“My lords,” She says, bowing.

“Loremaster Tegoluin.” Maglor, who was in the process of standing up, sits down as he greets her. “It has been a while since you were last here. You missed the monthly debriefing last week.”

“I apologise, my lord. I was on an important errand that I should like to tell you about now, if I may.”

Maglor nods. “Of course. The stage is yours.”

She nods and takes a deep breath before diving in.

“Last time I came to you about the ban on our language, you were correct that you would not be able to change the law without your brother’s permission. It was a direct order after all. However!” She grins, putting her hands firmly on her hips. “Soon after, I was searching through the laws that were set out during the first years of the First Age and came across this.” She clears her throat. “Section B of Article VI in the Laws of Beleriand states that ‘If the population of a Lord’s land is overwhelmingly in favour (98% of the population that is over the age of maturity) of the abolishment, renewal, adjustment or creation of a law, a Lord is given permission to overrule their feudal lord in this matter and make such abolishment, renewal, adjustment or creation of the law.’

“With this in mind, I set out to find the population’s attitude to the Quenya ban – and I thank you Lord Daeron, for your cousins have been most indispensable in my quest – and found that they _were_ overwhelmingly in favour of the abolishment of the ban.” She gestured behind her at both Oropher and Amdír, grinning like the incorrigible goblins they were, and the trolley. “In these papers you will find 553,276 signatures, 99.67% of the population that is over the age of maturity. You can now legally abolish the law.

“And you should! Children born since the ban have lost a fundamental part of their culture and their existence. And those who grew up in Valinor have had to give up their _names_ , something so fundamental to their – _our_ – culture! I am lucky that my name is so similar in both languages but still it does not role off the tongue in the same way. It is not the name my father gave me!

“There is nuance in Quenya that there isn’t in Sindarin. We lose expressions and names and music and art with every day that the ban is in place and so I beseech you to listen to your people and rescind it.”

_I told you she seemed serious on the matter._

Resignation floods their bond for a moment. _You’re writing the letter to Maedhros._ Maglor informs him and then out loud says, “We will have to have the signatures verified, of course, but while that is happening, I shall work on the rescinding the order.”

* * *

_~~Dear brother-in-law,~~ _

_~~To Maedh~~ _

_Lord Maedhros,_

_~~Due to recent developments~~ _

_Recently, our loremaster, Tegoluin, has taken to petitioning ~~Mags~~ ~~Maglor~~ Lord Maglor for a retraction of the Quenya ban. As any good vassal ~~and brother~~ would do, he refused her._

_However, Tegoluin then went on to ~~sort through the archives with a fine tooth comb~~ find ~~a section~~ Section B of Article VI of the Laws of Beleriand and collected signatures from 99.67% of the population ~~in agreement with the abolishment of the ban~~ who also wished for the speaking of Quenya to be permitted once again._

_The signatures were verified as lawful and Lord Maglor ~~bent~~ acquiesced to the larger population as was perfectly legal of him to do._

_The language of trade and politics is still Sindarin, ~~just that now it’s not illegal to speak a language that is spoken so widely across the sea. I mean, if speaking Quenya makes you a kinslayer, then you’re really condemning all those who speak it in Valinor as kinslayers and anyway, if you’re already a kinslayer, how can you be more of a kinslayer, like really~~ if you were concerned._

_~~Best wishes,~~ _

_Thank you,_

_Daeron Thingolion_

* * *

“I don’t know how much more of this I can take,” Aelineth says. She is dressed in her full uniform, despite the fact that they have told the military that while the temperature is so hot and they are off duty, they do not need to wear all of the layers and armour.

They had put this rule in place two days into the sudden heatwave as over twenty people collapsed from overheating.

“You could take off some of your layers,” Maglor suggests, fanning himself lazily with one hand. “It’s only us here.”

Aelineth looks like she would rather jump from one of the open windows than take off so much as her jacket. Maglor shrugs.

“Suit yourself.”

It’s really too hot to argue with anyone.

The door bangs open and Maglor looks up sharply, reaching on instinct to the knife he has lying on the desk beside him.

He freezes – a terrible metaphor, really, considering the weather – as he sees who it is.

Maedhros looks furious.

“Are you insane?”

“Hello Maedhros,” Maglor says, rising to his feet but not moving towards his brother. “It’s lovely to see you too Maedhros. It’s been such a long time since we’ve spoken face-to-face.”

The door closes again and Maglor realises that Aelineth has abandoned him.

Wonderful.

“This isn’t a joke Maglor. You are, in fact, an imbecile. Do you have any idea what rescinding the Quenya ban is going to _do_?”

“A fair one.”

“Then why on Eru’s earth did you think it was a good idea?”

Maglor shrugs. He is fairly certain he would be feeling a little more angry or annoyed or something if not for the oppressive heat. “I am almost completely certain that if I hadn’t, Tegoluin would have organised a coup. Anyway, Thingol can’t argue with the law.”

Maedhros sighs, his irritation melting away into something like pure exhaustion as he sinks onto a nearby seat and rubs his forehead. “Mags, I don’t-” He stops, taking in a breath. “You’re supposed to be the unproblematic one.”

Maglor rubs his shoulder comfortingly.

“Caranthir has monopolised the quartz trade. That’s the fifth trade he’s managed to do that with. Aegnor is furious about it and I don’t even know why. What does _he_ want with bloody quartz?”

Maglor hums comfortingly as he drifts over to the jug of water in the corner and fills a glass.

“Celegorm is marrying Thingol’s niece. Did you know that?” Maglor didn’t know that and he had many, _many_ questions as to how _that_ happened, but knew better than to stop Maedhros. “He’s being absolutely horrible to everyone now as well. I can’t tell why about _that_ either.”

Maglor pushes the glass into Maedhros’ hand.

“Not to mention Amras being Amras. I hear nothing from him for four years and then I get a letter telling me that someone was going to try and kill me and guess what? That night, this insane man tries to slit my throat – don’t give me that, I’m fine.”

Maglor carefully masked his feelings.

“And now you. Did you have to? Ontáno will be furious when he finds out.”

“Send his fury over in my direction. I can just say that I have Daeron here.”

“Daeron is labelled a traitor by the Doriathrim! That is _certainly_ not going to help your case. Which is another thing – since when were you announcing your marriage?”

“Oh we didn’t.” Maglor leans back against his desk, sipping from his cup of water. “We just stopped hiding it. Everyone was free to make their own judgements.”

Maedhros groans, leaning back and closing his eyes in defeat. “He’ll be after me for _that_ too.”

“What? _My_ marriage? The marriage that _I_ took part in? That was entirely _my_ decision.”

“I’m your Lord. I should be in charge of you.”

Maglor snorts a laugh. “That may be true for our other brothers but you haven’t been ‘in charge’ of me since I was thirty. Send his letters onto me and I’ll deal with him.”

“Fine, fine. I still don’t approve of your actions.”

“You rode through the worst heat wave we’ve seen since we landed on these shores for three days to inform me of your displeasure. I didn’t think that you did.” Maglor tucks some stray hairs back into his bun. “I’ll find you a cold bath and then you can have supper with us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-Canon Names:  
> Thingolion - Son of Thingol
> 
> Quenya Translations:  
> Ontáno - Uncle (Formal)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!
> 
> I have finished chapter 10! Thank you to [oliviacat3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliviacat3/pseuds/oliviacat3) for beta'ing!
> 
> TW - There is a rather graphic death towards the end of the chapter.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

“Wow…”

“Yeah, Caranthir’s rather an overachiever.”

Nenost sat on the edge of lake Helevorn, a sprawling mass of houses. From his place on the highlands near mount Rerir, Maglor could see the careful geometric system that Caranthir had put in place in his city, the way the roads crossed at nice, even ninety degrees.

“Is it just me or does it make a pattern.”

“It’s a Nornútë. His symbol.” Maglor sighs. “Atto would be so proud of him.”

Maglor startles as Daeron reaches over and takes his hand. “He’d be proud of you too.”

Maglor returns his smile. “I know. Thank you.”

“Any time. Now, are you ready?”

Maglor makes a face. “I will tell you now – no-one is _ever_ ready to face my family, myself included.”

* * *

“So you’re Daeron.”

Daeron freezes. An elf has appeared from seemingly nowhere in front of him – Amras, his mind supplies. He can think of no other red-haired elf with a long burn scar up one side of his face that would be here.

“Yes,” He replies tightly, taking a step backwards. He has heard _many_ stories of Maglor’s younger brother and none of them are particularly comforting in this moment right now.

“Hmm.” Amras narrows his eyes. “And you and Maglor are in an actual relationship?”

“Yes.”

Amras hums again, continuing to scrutinise him. “And you have no secrets?”

“Of course not.” It comes out a bit harsher than he intends.

“Don’t lie to me. I know what your mother is like.”

Daeron feels his eyes grow wide in fear and shock.

“I do not know how you know this,” Daeron begins dangerously. “But you absolutely _cannot_ tell Maglor. You can’t tell anyone.” He takes a step forward. Amras stays steadfastly in place with his arms crossed but Daeron doesn’t miss the slight flicker of something in his eyes. “Maglor has enough on his plate than having to worry with _my_ problems. And I will not risk my sister’s safety for anything in this world.”

“Melian will not hurt her pride and joy.”

“She would do _anything_ to keep her power.” He looks around for a moment before tugging his sleeve up to reveal the long scar down the inside of his forearm. “She gave me this. Every night, if I had done something that wasn’t to her desire, she would take a knife and reopen the cut because I wasn’t good enough and I was a threat to her control.”

Amras purses his lips. “Fine. I’ll keep my peace. But know this – you may want to protect your sister but _I_ want to protect my brothers just as much. If any of their lives are in danger, because of your secret, nothing will buy my silence.”

He scowls and spins around, disappearing around the corner.

* * *

“Anno Káno!” A small voice yells as Maglor arrives downstairs for breakfast.

Daeron had to run back to their bedroom as he had forgotten his hair pin and his hair was threatening to not be perfect at all times; Maglor had told him not to worry, that his brothers really wouldn’t care, but he had insisted.

“Tyelpë!” Maglor grunts as the small ball of energy slams into him, insisting on being picked up. “How are you?”

“I’m wonderful! Did Atya tell you that he’s going to let me watch him in the forge for my next begetting day? And Amil is teaching me wire making.” Celebrimbor digs around in his pocket for a moment before coming out with something and sticking it directly in Maglor’s face. Maglor laughs, leaning away to try and get a better look.

“Is that a dog?”

“Yeah! It’s Huan! Anno Tyelko says that Huan _loves_ it!”

“And I love it too. Can you tell me where your Atya and Amya are?”

Celebrimbor points down the corridor, in the opposite direction to the dining room. Maglor mourns the lack of bacon that he had been able to smell earlier and follows the finger.

“There you are Tyelpë!” Midhwen swoops down and plucks Celebrimbor from Maglor’s arms. “Hello there Mags. How are you?”

“I’m very well Mimi. And you?”

She smiles brightly. “Haven’t ever been better.” She drops her voice so that Celebrimbor, who has run off to inspect a mural, cannot hear them. “The sex is spectacular.”

“Gross. Really didn’t need to know that.”

She giggles. “But seriously, Curufin and I are getting on rather well now. I know we haven’t been the most conventional marriage but I think I can see myself loving him.”

Maglor snorts a small laugh. “You’ll have to share him with Finrod.”

“Oh, that was a given – we’ve had a few conversations on the matter. But I quite like Ingoldo and I certainly like his betrothed – if that _is_ what they are still – and I am not be above sharing. Our marriage was based on that concept – ah look, here they are now.”

“Kano!”

Maglor smiles as Celegorm and Curufin approach. “Hey Toroni.”

Maglor is slightly disconcerted when it is Curufin who first gives him a hug, his eyes shining. “It’s wonderful to see you Kano!”

“And you Curvo. Tyelpë has grown a lot.”

“I have!” The small boy says, appearing and gesturing for his father to pick him up. Curufin obliged.

“He has.” Celegorm ruffles Celebrimbor’s hair. Celebrimbor laughs, wiggling his way out of his father’s arms and over to a nearby window. “It’s been a while Mags.”

Maglor is enveloped in another hug – and he’s starting to feel a bit uncomfortable with how much physical affection he is getting – and then there is the sound of someone softly clearing their throat.

Celegorm retracts quickly, glowering. The person who just cleared their throat looks equally displeased.

“Maglor, this is Nimloth.”

“Your fiancée?”

“Yes.” They both look furious at the prospect of their marriage and Maglor decides that he really doesn’t want to touch that with anything shorter than five feet. He turns mechanically to Curufin.

“Have you met Haleth yet? She’s nice.”

“Nimloth?” Maglor spins around at his husband’s voice. He is impeccably dressed – challenging even Curufin’s level of perfection – and Nimloth stops her glowering for a moment to gape instead.

“Daeron?”

That is the last part of the conversation that Maglor can catch before they degenerate into a unintelligible string of Doriathrin.

Celegorm is still glowering, Celebrimbor is now attempting to climb his father and Midhwen has such a wooden expression on her face that Maglor would be unsurprised if it turned out she had replaced herself with a carved alternative.

And this is only the beginning.

It’s going to be a long two weeks.

* * *

“OK,” Maglor says, sitting beside Daeron on the low wall. “Are you alright?”

“Don’t be so nervous. Your family isn’t going to kill me.”

Maglor contemplated this for a moment before clearly dismissing it. “They might. They’re rather bloodthirsty.”

Daeron rolls his eyes. He has actually been rather on Maglor’s side since the incident with Amras three days ago but he’s not talking about that.

There is yelling from somewhere inside and a crash. A moment later, a grinning Amras appears from nowhere, throwing a knife up and down. “Thirteen hours Mags. On the dot. Pay up.”

“Ugh. You’re impossible.” He digs around in his pockets. “Dae, remind me never to make bets with this goblin again.”

He throws a small pin in Amras’ direction.

“I make no promises.” Daeron says as Amras disappears again.

“I _knew_ you were secretly scared of them.”

“Not of all of them! Just him, he scares me. What did you make a bet on anyway?”

“How long it would take for Caranthir to end up in an argument with Aegnor. Angrod’s mellowed out quite a bit since he married Edhellos and tends to follow his twin’s lead. I said that they wouldn’t argue as it was Caranthir’s wedding but really, I was being rather naïve on the matter. Pity, I quite liked that brooch.”

“Is this why there is a general limit to family meet-ups?”

“Oh yeah. Orodreth made the very wise decision to keep his wedding small. While our own wedding was far from ideal, I _am_ glad it didn’t have to deal with all of…” Maglor gestures around vaguely. “… _this_.”

Daeron snorts a laugh.

“But on a more interesting note, what on earth is going on with your cousin and my brother? It is clear that _neither_ of them want to be in the same room, let alone a relationship. I was wondering if you would be able to shed more light on the matter.”

Daeron shrugs his shoulders in an attempt to cover up his sudden panic. “I have no idea either,” He lies. “I wasn’t ever very close to my cousins. They didn’t live in Menegroth so we saw each other rarely.”

Maglor looks disappointed. “Oh well. I’ll have to do some digging then. Amras might have an idea – he _always_ knows what’s going on.”

* * *

“I’m not surprised, really. Caranthir’s never liked Finvain and it was almost inevitable that he was going to punch _someone_. Pity that my money was on Angrod. But as Amras said – it was clear who his target would be when they greeted each other.”

“Finvain Findisiel,” Daeron says, lowering his voice to the same tone as his brother-in-law’s.

“Caranthir Fëanorion.”

They laugh and Daeron gives him a teasing smile. “You should really stop betting on your family. You are far too optimistic for your own good – or the good of your finances.”

Maglor sighs dramatically. “I suppose. It would be _sensible_.”

“I don’t think you know what that word means.”

Maglor reaches over to gently shove his husband and they both dissolve into giggles.

“Sing something with me?” Daeron suggests.

In reply, Maglor begins to hum a simple melody. Daeron joins in with a counter-melody and they are soon singing in perfect counter point with an accompaniment provided by the Music around them. They get completely lost in each other as Laeglin and Laichant plodded steadily onward, thankfully Valinorian horses with a wonderful sense of direction.

The Music drifts into minor and then there is a horrible crash of dissonant notes.

Laeglin whinnies and rears up at something and Maglor only just stays on, reaching over to pat the horse’s neck comfortingly as he retracts himself from the tides of the Music so that it is just in the background of his hearing.

“What was that?” Daeron asks, sitting upright and looking around sharply.

“I don’t-”

There’s a scream from in front of them and they wordlessly urge their horses forward.

 _Orcs_ , Daeron says across their bond and, sure enough, there is a group of around twelve orcs ahead of them. They draw their swords.

“…nice, tender elf.” Maglor catches the leader say and then there is an exclamation of surprise from one of the ones of the outskirts before he is trampled.

They make short work of the group without manipulating a single note of the Music.

There is an elf pinned to the nearby tree, a spear piercing her stomach, one of her ankles and through her shoulder. There is blood coating her, soaking through the rags of her clothing, and pieces of flesh cut away from her face, her arms, her stomach.

He can smell it on the fire and grimaces.

 _Dead_? He asks his husband across their bond, not quite daring to break the silence that has fallen across the glade.

Daeron reaches out to check the nís’ pulse and, as his fingers brush her skin, her eyes snap open, bright green and bloodshot. Daeron stumbles back

“Bastards,” She hisses before her eyes half-focus. “Who are…you can look after her. Look after her!”

Her hand shoots out and catches Maglor’s wrist. “Protect her with your life. Swear.”

“I-”

“Swear it!”

Maglor has no idea what this nís is talking about and he has a natural aversion to oaths but his mouth works against his mind. “I swear.”

“Good. Good. I left her. I left her alone in the tree. I told her to be strong and that Nana would be coming back.” Tears begin to fall down her face. “I told her and I can’t…”

 _Find the child_ , Maglor says across the bond, getting closer to the dying nís in an attempt to comfort her.

Daeron sends a pulse of acknowledgement before scrambling up one of the nearby trees.

“She’s all alone. There’s no-one,” She hiccups and gasps in the pain that it causes her. “There’s no-one to look after her. It was just me and her. Just me and…”

“I’ll look after her,” Maglor says, stroking across her bloody and deformed cheek. “It’s alright. You can be at peace.”

He begins to sing again, a song he used to sing to Maedhros so that he would fall into a painless sleep after Angband.

The woman’s breathing evens out and eventually fades into nothing.

Maglor can feel her fëa leave her body.

He keeps singing as he goes about the ugly work of piling the orc bodies away from the glade and to a place not to close to any tree and setting them alight. It is only then that he works up the nerve to work the nís’ body from the tree, laying her as peacefully as he can on the ground.

The ground is hard and rocky beneath his feet, and he doesn’t have a shovel even if he the soil _was_ diggable, so he has a sing the ground into a shallow pit, lying the nís down into it. He is exhausted by the time that he has manipulated the rock back into place around the body but he pulls himself to his feet and back to Laeglin, standing where she was left.

In his pack is a simple chisel – something he carries with him wherever he goes; a gift from his mother on his twentieth begetting day when she first tried to get him into sculpting that he likes to keep with him as a reminder of her – and he takes it out.

Maglor is not masterful with it – not like his mother – but he doesn’t think he could be called Nerdanelion if he didn’t have at least a passable skill with a chisel.

He stands back and admires his work, simple words on the top of the grave reading _Here lies a mother, loved by her daughter_. It was the best he could come up with in the moment.

He puts the tools away and settles himself at the base of a nearby tree as he waits for Daeron to reappear.

* * *

“Hello there,” Daeron says, balancing himself carefully on the branch of a tree.

There is a tiny child – surely no bigger than a year old – hidden away in the leaves of the very same tree. Her dress is grey and torn, her hair free of any restraints (this, Daeron has found, is abnormal for the Ñoldor; so long as your hair can be tied up, it is – for the Sindar, it is different and hair is left loose until you turn fifty). She definitely is a Ñoldor, despite her drab state of dress, absent of any house symbols or colours. Her skin is the same darkness, her hair the right shade of brown – although her eyes are green, which Daeron had always thought was a Sindar trait.

She says nothing, burying herself further into the foliage.

“I’m here to look after you,” Daeron says. “Your mother…your mother can’t come back now. She’s gone across the sea but she asked me to protect you.”

“‘Said she’d come back,” The girl mumbles.

Daeron sighs mournfully. “I know she did. But it was a promise she couldn’t keep.”

“I want Nana.”

“I know.” He sits on the branch. “You’ll see her again one day.”

“I want her now!” The small girl sniffles and then bursts into tears.

Daeron hasn’t ever really dealt with children with the exception of his sister who _never_ used to cry but he knows the basic logistics of comforting someone. He reaches out slowly to pat her on the shoulder and she takes this to mean hugs, crawling into his lap and sobbing there.

He wraps his arms around her carefully, stroking her back and whispering soft words of soothing.

The sun is just about set as she eventually cries herself to sleep.

Daeron carefully stands again, balancing the girl as gently as he can in his arms, and makes his way back to the glade where he knows Maglor is.

He lands gently on the ground. There is no sign that orcs had ever been here, a grave in the hard ground.

“Well, you’ve been busy,” He says quietly so as not to wake the child. “But I found her daughter…” He trails off as he sees that Maglor has fallen asleep under a tree.

Daeron contemplates his options for a moment before settling down beside him – sleep doesn’t sound too bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-Canon Names:  
> Nenost - Lake City (Sindarin)  
> Mimi - Short for Midhwen  
> Finvain - Radiant Hair (Sindarised Quenya)  
> Findisiel - Daughter of Findis (Sindarin)  
> Laichant - Sweet Gift (Sindarin)  
> Nerdanelion - Son of Nerdanel
> 
> Quenya Translations:  
> Nornútë - Oak Tree Knot  
> Anno - Uncle (Informal)  
> Atya - Father (Informal)  
> Amya - Mother (Informal)  
> Toroni - Brothers  
> Nís - Female Elf  
> Fëa - Spirit
> 
> Sindarin Translations:  
> Nana - Mother (Informal)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!
> 
> Chapter 11 is here! After this, I think that updates are going to be a bit more sporadic for a while because I have loads I want to write and do as well as this whole sewing project I intend to start soon that will take up a good portion of my time.
> 
> A big thanks to [oliviacat3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliviacat3/pseuds/oliviacat3) for beta'ing!
> 
> And I hope you enjoy!

“Who are you?”

Maglor huffs and blinks himself wearily awake. A small face looks back at him.

“‘m Maglor,” He says sleepily. “Who’re you?”

“Nana called me Melilot.”

“Melilot?” Maglor pushes himself upright, yesterday filtering back into his memory. “That’s a very nice name.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Don’t you?”

“No. Nana gave it to me and Nana left me.”

Maglor blinks, still half asleep. “Did she?”

“Yes. The nice ellon told me so.”

“Ah. That was my husband, Daeron.” This must be the nís’ elfling.

“He was nice.” Her face is still quite close to Maglor’s. “He said he was going to find the horses.”

Maglor rubs his head. “Oh yes. I didn’t…” He pulls himself to his feet.

 _Daeron_?

“Morning Mags!” Daeron appears from in the woods, leading Laeglin and Laichant. “The horses took off in the night. Took me a bit of time to find them. Are you two acquainted?”

“Yes. Melilot and I have met.”

Melilot nods. “Are you my ada?”

Daeron freezes, looking momentarily too shocked to say anything. “Not…why would you…?” He sounds bewildered.

“Nana said that we were going to find Ada. She said we couldn’t stay at home because it was destroyed. She left but we found _you_.” She looks at Maglor hopefully. “Or are _you_ my ada?”

“No, Melilot,” Maglor says softly, kneeling to be at her height as he feels Daeron panicking. “Neither of us are your ada and we don’t know your ada either. We were travelling when we heard your mother in trouble. She asked us to look after you before she had to leave.”

“Oh.” She bites her lip and doesn’t say anything else.

 _Something to eat?_ Daeron suggests across their bond.

“Are you hungry?” Maglor asks quietly.

She nods and Maglor hears Daeron ruffle through the saddlebags.

“Do you like jam?”

She nods again.

Daeron settles beside both of them. “It’s red berry and apple.”

They don’t speak again as Maglor spreads some jam on half a piece of lembas and tears it into small enough bits for the small girl to eat, just like he used to do for his little brothers.

 _What do we do about her?_ Daeron asks as they eat. _Do we try and find her father?_

_I don’t know. I would agree except…_

_That seems like an impossible task with how big the land is, how little we know about her and her family, and how many settlements there must be._

_And he might not even live near here._

_Or even be alive still – the nís said that Melilot had no-one._

Maglor takes a contemplative bite of bread and says nothing.

_We’re going to take her back to the Gap, right?_

_Yes. And then…_

_We’ll have to think on it._

* * *

Melilot rides on the first day with Maglor.

She is rather quiet, Daeron finds (understandable, of course), but when Maglor and he begin to sing after they stop for lunch, she perks up.

“That’s pretty,” She says as they finish. “Like the birds!”

Maglor laughs. “I am sure. We endeavour to please.”

“What does…” Her forehead scrunches. “…em-deaf-er mean?”

“When you endeavour to do something, it means you’re trying to do it as best as you can.”

She is silent for a moment. “I would like to en-deav-our to be like the birds too.”

“We can teach you, can’t we Dae?”

Daeron smiles at Melilot’s hopeful expression. “Of course.”

On the second day, Melilot rides with Daeron. She is a lot chattier, asking after every little thing and Daeron sees how much Maglor loves to answer her questions, however weird or off-topic. She is certainly a sweet little thing, Daeron decides.

On the third day, Daeron wakes up early, before the sun has even risen.

Maglor is tucked beside him like he was when they fell asleep, his mouth a tad open and looking more peaceful than he usually does awake.

It takes him a moment to realise that Melilot is nowhere to be seen, Maglor’s cloak – which she had been sleeping beneath – discarded on the floor.

Daeron pushes himself upright.

“Melilot?”

There is no reply.

He sighs, pulling his cloak around him. He should probably wake Maglor as he has far more experience with children that he does but he can’t quite bring himself to disturb his peace.

He looks around the field and nearly misses the head of dark hair among the recently harvested wheat.

“Melilot?” He asks again and there is still no response.

He glances at Maglor and decides that he is safe enough, and begins walking towards the elfling.

He does not call out her name again, settling himself beside her silently. They are sitting at the edge of a small stream, trickling past rather unenthusiastically.

“Did Nana want to leave me?”

“No.”

She draws her knees to her chest, looking very old and wise for such a young girl. “I don’t _really_ dislike my name,” She says and Daeron does not say that he already thought this. “But I think of her every time someone calls me it. It makes me sad that she’s gone even if she didn’t want to go.”

“Would you like me to give you name?” The offer slips from Daeron’s mouth before he can stop it.

She looks up at him, confused.

“That way we would have something to call you that wouldn’t make you sad.”

“That would be…nice, I think. What’s the name?”

Daeron had not got this far when he made his suggestion and has to think very fast. “You said you wanted to be like the birds?”

She nods.

“How about…Filegol?”

It’s a nickname that Nellas had given Lúthien when she was very little and Daeron hopes that she won’t mind him using it in this situation.

“Filegol…I like that.” She gives him a tentative smile. “I’m _Filegol_. I’m Filegol. _I’m_ Filegol. _I’m Filegol_.”

Daeron smiles at the pleasure she has at saying her new name over and over again. “A pleasure to meet you Filegol.”

* * *

Maglor wakes to the sound of happy chattering.

He blinks his eyes open and sees Daeron helping Melilot to put jam on her bread. There is more jam on her than on the bread but it is a valiant attempt and they both look very happy.

“Good morning,” Daeron says as Maglor pushes himself upright. “We have bread and…some jam.”

Melilot turns her wide smile at him. “Ada was helping me make breakfast. He gave me a name this morning. I’m Filegol now.”

 _Ada?_ Maglor asks across their bond in panic as the smile on his face freezes.

“I’m not your ada, Filegol,” Daeron says. “We said this.”

She pouts and crosses her arms. “Fine.”

“I like your new name.” Maglor attempts to change the subject and it seems to work.

Melilot – no, _Filegol_ – smiles again. “It’s awesome! It’s because I’m going to be a bird one day.”

“A noble goal indeed.”

* * *

They spend the ride that day teaching Filegol to sing scales and she is rather good, considering they are horseback at the time and she is a beginner _and_ she is only…well, Daeron’s initial guess was around a year old, but he’s starting to think that she might just be small for her age and be more like two or even three; she is certainly clever enough.

They are around midway through the afternoon – Filegol has switched to riding with Maglor and Daeron has taken out his flute to play instead of singing – when Filegol breaks the relative silence.

“Are you going to find my ada?”

Daeron takes his flute away from his lips, sharing a look with Maglor. “We are going to try to.”

“What’s an ada like?”

 _That is a loaded question_ , Maglor sends across their bond and Daeron covers his mouth to stop a laugh from escaping involuntarily.

“Well,” He says, once he is sure he won’t break into giggles. “My ada loves me a lot. He used to dance with me and go for walks with me. He used to tell the most amazing stories about the stars and he was the one who taught me how to play the flute and how to sing. He taught me a lot.”

She nods seriously. “And what about you?”

“Me?” Maglor feigns surprise. “Well, my brothers and I called him Atto not Ada.”

“Why?”

“Because we grew up far away and we spoke a different language there.”

“Weird. What was he like?”

Maglor smiles faintly, getting the far off look in his eyes that he gets when he’s thinking about Valinor. “He was very clever. He created the most amazing things. And he never shied away from a challenge. He whisked us often into the far reaches of Valinor to go exploring. He loved us all dearly.”

She nods again and they continue to ride on in silence.

“You don’t need to find my ada,” She says suddenly. “You’ll do just fine.”

Daeron has a spontaneous coughing fit to hide the sudden burst of laughter. Across their bond, Maglor feels completely bewildered which just makes Daeron want to laugh harder.

“Are you OK?”

Daeron carefully sets his face into a serious expression. “Yes. Just a small cough, that’s all.”

“What makes you say that?” Maglor asks. “Don’t you want to find your ada?”

“No. I don’t know him.” She looks hopefully up at him. “But I _do_ know you. You’ve _already_ taught me singing and we’ve been going on a journey and you’re clever and _you’re_ clever. And there are _two_ of you which is better than one.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes! I said I was. I’ve been thinking about it for ages. You’re nice and I like you and I know you and you _act_ like an ada or an atto should.”

“I…suppose you can have us, if you would like,” Daeron says weakly, sharing Maglor’s feeling of bewilderment.

She grins. “ _Glorious_.”

* * *

“Goodnight, Ada. Goodnight, Atto.”

“Goodnight, Filegol.” Maglor tucks his cloak in under Filegol’s chin and she smiles sleepily, drifting off almost at once.

He sits back on his heels as he realises the true extent of the day.

“Fuck, we’ve been adopted.”

“You’ve just got that?” Daeron asks dryly. “I’m pretty sure she’s been trying to do it for a while now.”

“Clever, really.” He laughs as the shock drifts away, replaced by slight curiosity. “I’m impressed really.”

“From what I gather,” Daeron says, coming to settle beside him. “It’s a rather Finwean thing to do.”

Maglor snorts a laugh. “That it is.”

They sit for a while side by side.

“You need to think of a name for her.” Maglor looks at his husband in surprise and Daeron goes faintly pink. “Tegoluin employed me to help her go through some books on customs. I got interested.”

“In the bit about _adoption_?”

Daeron shoves him gently in the shoulder and Maglor laughs. “It’s not…I wasn’t thinking that we…”

Maglor leans over to silence him with a kiss to his cheek. “It is of no consequence now. We have, after all, just gained a child, whether we wanted to or not.”

“The issue of the name still stands.”

Maglor crosses his legs beneath him. The girl – their _daughter_ now – shifts in her sleep, sniffling and hugging the cloak closer.

“Ivárifinwë.”

Daeron looks at him sharply. “Really?”

Maglor blinks. “I…yes.”

It had come to him as a whisper in the back of his mind. As he said it, it had sounded odd but the longer he thinks it over, the more he thinks that he likes it and the more it feels _right_.

“Ivárë for short.” He decides. “It’s a bit less of a mouthful. I shall ask her in the morning if she would like it.” He smiles at his husband. “Care to turn in for the night? It’s been quite a day.”

“That it has.” Daeron smiles back at him. “Sleep sounds most appealing now that I think about it.”

* * *

“Iv-ári-fin-wë.”

Daeron smiles as he watches Filegol turn the name over.

“Yes.” Maglor smiles at her. “Do you like it?”

She wrinkles her nose. “But it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Quite the contrary, it means quite a lot. It is a name in Quenya – the language I grew up speaking.”

Filegol looks up at him curiously. “What _does_ it mean then?”

“Well, the -finwë bit at the end is a family name, of sorts. My father and all my brothers have a name that ends in -finwë. It was my grandfather’s name and he gave it to his five children. It’s a bit of a tradition now, to have a name in that form.”

“So if you give me this name, you can never get rid of me?”

“I wouldn’t get rid of you anyway! But yes, in essence.”

She nods. “And the rest?”

“Ivárë – the very beginning bit – means She Who Protects. If you like the name but think it too much of a mouthful, it’s a good little shortened version.”

She nods again, a thoughtful expression on her face. Daeron thinks it looks rather cute, what with the baby fat and the way she goes slightly cross-eyed.

“I like it,” She declares eventually.

Daeron can feel Maglor’s relief across their bond. He must have gotten rather attached to the name last night.

Daeron kneels beside them both. “So, Melilot Filegol Ivárifinwë. Do you like it?”

She grins, nodding effusively. “I love it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-Canon Names:  
> Melilot – Yellow Flower/Literally the flower Melilot (Sindarin)  
> Filegol – Nimble Small Bird Running Free (Sindarin)  
> Ivárifinwë – Finwë Who Protects (Quenya)  
> Ivárë – Short for Ivárifinwë
> 
> Quenya Translations:  
> Nís - Female Elf  
> Atto - Father (Informal)
> 
> Sindarin Translations:  
> Ada - Father (Informal)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!
> 
> This is chapter 12! I’m not quite so happy with this? It’ll probably get edited in the future - it just needed to happen before the rest of the story can happen and I didn’t want to keep anyone waiting any longer as I continue to dither about how I do it.
> 
> Excitingly tho, the next chapter is practically the reason I write this, as it was the second thing I thought of after their first meeting at Mereth Aderthad.
> 
> Thank you to [oliviacat3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliviacat3/pseuds/oliviacat3) for beta’ing as always!
> 
> And I hope you enjoy!

Aelineth is sitting in the chair by the fire, her legs and arms tightly crossed and an eyebrow raised as Daeron exits Filegol’s new bedroom.

He freezes.

He cannot work out what she’s feeling – he usually can as Aelineth has never been too closed off about her emotions – and it is a momentarily terrifying prospect. He buries that fear as soon as it appears. Aelineth is _not_ his mother and cannot do anything to him even if she desired to. Not to mention, she has never harmed him before.

“What happened?” She asked, her voice a careful monotone.

“What happened?” Daeron has to physically push himself from Filegol’s closed door and force himself to sit in the other armchair.

“Yes. When you found Ivárë.”

“Her mother was being attacked and she died. I found Filegol in a tree and brought her back to our camp. We knew nothing about her and her mother claimed she had no other family. So we brought her back.”

“OK.” Aelineth sighs and the façade of indifference falls away along with the niggling resemblance she has to his mother about to tell him off, much to Daeron’s relief. “Nothing is _wrong_ then.”

“No, not that I know. What do you mean?”

“I-” She stops. “It’s nothing. I just have a bad feeling and I can’t pinpoint where it’s coming from or why I’m having it. It might be entirely unrelated to your…daughter.” She rubs at her forehead and stands. “I’d better be getting to bed. Have a good night.”

She nods and disappears into the corridor.

* * *

Maglor is filing away his week’s worth of paperwork in Daeron’s new filing system when he is distracted.

“Atto.”

Maglor looks down in surprise as Filegol tugs on the hem of his tunic.

“What happened to your hair?” He asks before he can stop himself and Filegol scrunches up her face to avoid tears, her hair sticking out of a clumsily tied ponytail at odd angles. “Come here sweetheart.” He sinks to his knees and his daughter flings herself into his arms, sobbing softly.

He says soft comforting nonsense into her ear as he strokes her back until the crying subsides somewhat and he can pull away to face her properly. “Now, can you tell me what happened?”

“I wanted the pretty braids when we did our singing.” She rubs her nose and sniffs. “They went wrong and I couldn’t get them out and…and I tried to get them out with the scissis.”

Maglor rubs off her tears gently. “Hey. Don’t worry Ivárë. Let me tell you a little secret.”

She perks up a little bit at this, sniffling again and rubbing her nose. “What?”

“When I was very little, I thought my hair would look nice if it was short.” He makes a face. “It was a fairly unfortunate haircut. But luckily, I had my older brother there and he is - _was_ amazing at doing braids. He managed to make my hair look completely normal for ages while it grew out. And good for you, I learnt all my skills from him.”

“I’m sorry,” She says.

“It’s OK. It was an accident. But next time you want the braids, come and find me or Ada or Aelineth or someone else, OK?”

She nods.

“Good.” Maglor presses a kiss to her forehead. “Now, let us go do some hair magic!”

* * *

Filegol appears for supper with two grazed knees, a black eye and a bright grin on her face.

Daeron is horrified.

“Aelineth!” He says as the lieutenant turns to go. “You were supposed to _look after_ her today, not let her be beaten up.”

“I wasn’t beaten up!” Filegol explains. “Aelineth was teaching me to use a sword.”

“Was she now?” Daeron turns a coldly polite smile to the elleth. “Would Aelineth like to explain _why_ she did this?”

Aelineth shrugs, looking uncowed beneath his glare. “She needs to know self-defence and as I’ve already taught her hand-to-hand combat-”

“Oh Eru.”

“Were we doing something bad?”

He looks down at his daughter and soften slightly. “No, Filegol. You _do_ need to know self-defence. It just would have been nice if Aelineth had informed me of her decision earlier.”

“I regret nothing,” She whispered into his ears as Filegol rushed to hug her other father as Maglor came in.

* * *

“Major Losson is very nice,” Filegol says, adding another wildflower to the growing pile in Maglor’s arms. “He’s taught me loads about tactics and the such while I’ve been in working in his office. And his son is really nice.”

“His son…” Maglor wracks his brain for a moment. “Lossel?”

“Lostin,” Filegol corrects. “He came in while I was filing. He works at the forge.”

“Ah. I think I’ve seen him there before.”

“You _never_ go to the forge.”

“I go sometimes. I’m a son of Fëanor, daughter dearest.”

She rolls her eyes and tucks a thistle into his hair. “You haven’t done forge work since you made me make a brooch for my cloak and that was three years ago.”

“Yes, well, I had no need to. Music is a far better outlet anyway.”

“Anno Curvo wouldn’t agree.”

“I do not understand how you have managed to gain such a good understanding of your uncles after meeting them once.”

She takes a couple of the flowers from his arms and begins to weave them into a crown. “I write to Tyelpë and Gil and Mírë. They keep me rather well updated.”

“A clever little spy network that.”

She nods wisely. “Like Anno Telvo.”

“Alright. How’d you know that?”

She grins, putting the flower crown on her head. “ _That_ would be telling.”

Maglor is going to have to be more careful as to where he puts his personal letters.

* * *

“Ada! Ada!” Filegol skids into Daeron’s office, a grin plastered over her face. “Look what I made!”

She shoves something into his hands.

“Oh! This is beautiful Fil.” He examines the flute in his hands. It is as light as his wooden one but made of a shining silver metal. “Did someone help you?”

“Amdír and Tegoluin helped with the design – well, I say that, but they kept arguing. In the end, I had to leave and try it myself. Aithien told me off ‘cause I burnt myself but other than that, it was good. Do you want to hear me play?”

“You burnt yourself?”

She rolls her eyes. “It’s _fine_ Ada.”

“Don’t roll your eyes at me. You were hurt.”

She yanks up her sleeve. “See. It’s nothing. Aithien patched me up just fine. Lostin surprised me, that’s all. I don’t make mistakes in the forge.”

“Everyone makes mistakes sometimes Filegol,” Daeron says, examining the wound carefully – it is truly nothing, but he wants to be sure. He pulls the sleeve back down and smiles. “So you asked Tegoluin and Amdír for help?”

“I wanted to surprise you and Atto. I found out the other day that Amdír’s mother made music instruments and-”

“Really? I thought Astoreth weaved fabric and-” Daeron stops at his daughter’s raised eyebrows. “Sorry.”

She rolls her eyes. “Amdír’s mother isn’t Astoreth. Anyway, he knew some things about making them in an original Doriathrin design. I asked Tegoluin about materials and then she went on and _on_ about how the Ñoldor make flutes and for once her ramblings were inspiring! I had the idea to mix the two. And don’t worry, Lostin was present the entire time while I was in using the fire and it was very safe.” She takes a deep breath as she finally finishes and looks up at him hopefully, an unusual light of uncertainty in her eyes. “Do you like it?”

Daeron smiles at her, giving her back the flute carefully.

“It’s beautifully crafted,” He praised. It was not perfect by any means (Daeron had been alive long enough to know these things) but it was very good for a girl of barely forty three who did not actually specialise in making instruments. “Have you played it yet?”

“No. I’ve written a song for you and Atto and I wanted that to be the first thing that I play.”

“Do we get to hear?”

“Oh yes! I’m going to play it for you tonight after supper.”

Daeron presses a kiss to her forehead. “I look forward to it greatly!”

* * *

“Supper!” Filegol slid past Maglor’s office door with a grin on her face. “Come _on_ Atto!”

Maglor laughed, setting down his quill. “Whatever’s the rush Ivárë?”

“It’s a surprise!” She disappeared from the open doorframe to be replaced by Daeron.

“Do _you_ know why she’s so excited?” He asked curiously.

“Didn’t you hear? It’s a surprise.”

He rolls his eyes, dodging around his desk and coming to kiss his husbands gently on the lips. “So you _do_ know something?”

“Maybe.” He smiles. “I’m sure you shall like it.”

“Good. If it isn’t, I _am_ going to blame you.”

“You would think our daughter would do something that you _wouldn’t_ like?”

“I shall mention the incident with the horse and the balloon.”

“That was funny, you have to admit.”

“True.” Maglor snorts a laugh before sobering slightly. “But that poor horse.”

* * *

Filegol finishes her song, taking the flute from her lips slowly, looking expectantly at her fathers.

 _She has got so good_ , Maglor send across their bond as he stands and praises her music.

Filegol smiles so brightly, embracing Maglor tightly and chattering excitedly about how she wrote it.

Daeron smiles and nods and interjects were he is needed but half his mind is on his daughter and how bright she is. She is a worthy heir to both their heritages.

* * *

“Good night Ivárë,” Maglor says, poking his head around her bedroom door. She looks up from her book and gives him a wide smile.

“Goodnight Atto!”

“See you in the…”

“…morning!” She finishes as he retreats and closes the door.

He traces his fingers over her name that Oropher had painted on her door three days after she arrived. _Filegol Ivárifinwë_ written in Tengwar made of yellow melilot instead of adding the name which Filegol had asked not to put there.

“She’s grown up so much,” He says softly, wandering into the greater living room. “She was so little when we found her that day.”

“I know.” Daeron presses a lingering kiss to Maglor’s lips. “She wasn’t going to stay like that forever.”

Maglor hums a soft agreement. “It scares me,” He admits. “It’s flown by. I feel…I feel like her childhood has been shorter than my own and that of my brothers.”

“Maybe it has. Valinor doesn’t seem to live by the same rules as here.”

“Maybe…”

Something descends upon them that makes the silence feel physically heavy.

“Hey.” Maglor feels Daeron gently pull him towards their bedroom. “Let’s get to bed. Things will look brighter in the morning.”

* * *

The fortress is bustling and Daeron can hear the bells in the tower ringing.

“I want to fight.”

He stops short. “Filegol. You are meant to be with the civilians in the square. They’re leaving soon.”

“I want to fight.” Her sword is on her waist and she has that stubborn set to her jaw.

“No. Filegol, someone needs to go with the civilians and to explain to your uncle what is going on. Neither your Atto nor I can fulfil that position.”

“I want to fight though. Surely you need everyone you can-”

“The civilians need protection too.” He smiles sadly. “You know how dangerous this is likely going to be. Morgoth has been quiet for the last few hundred years – his final reveal will be big. Someone needs to lead and only you can do that. Understood?”

“I want to fight.”

“I know. But I need you to be brave even if…even if we aren’t there.” He presses a kiss to the crown of her head. “I love you. We _both_ love you so much but we need you to do as we’ve asked. OK?”

She nods, looking a bit like she might cry.

“I’ll be brave. I’ll…I’ll try.”

“Good. Major Losson will be there. He knows what to do. And your uncle will protect you when you get to Himring.”

“I know.” She darts forward to hug him tightly. “I love you.”

Daeron lets his chin rest on the top of her head for a moment, willing himself not to believe that this is the last time that he will see her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-Canon Names:  
> Lossel - Snow Star (Sindarin)  
> Lostin - Snow Twinkle (Sindarin)  
> Mírë - Short for Mírifinwë  
> Aithien - Spear Woman (Sindarin)  
> Astoreth - Loyal Woman (Sindarin)
> 
> Sindarin Translations:  
> Elleth - Female Elf
> 
> Quenya Translations:  
> Anno - Uncle (Informal)


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!
> 
> Here I am, with chapter 13, the middle chapter. The Maedhros Interlude as I have taken to calling it in my head. A chapter I have been working towards since I started writing this story. Did it meet my expectations? I think so.
> 
> Thank you, as always, to [oliviacat3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliviacat3/pseuds/oliviacat3) for beta’ing!
> 
> TW - There is the origins of Maglor's self-harm in this chapter.
> 
> And I hope you enjoy!

“Ivárë.” Maedhros makes a beeline for his niece as she dismounts from her horse. “Tell me what happened.”

He can tell it’s her by the distinctive way her mind connects with the world not by any physical factor. She is at least three feet taller than when he last saw her and is covered from head to two in ash that has smeared its way across her skin, making her completely unrecognisable.

“The Gap was attacked. I…I saw them. There were hordes of orcs and I could see the balrogs and…and the creations of Morgoth that I have no name for. I don’t believe the Gap will stand for long. The army was far bigger than we anticipated.”

Maedhros closes his eyes for a moment and takes in a steadying breath. He smiles as comfortingly as he can and draws her into his arms. She melts, not crying but exhausted all the same.

“It’ll be alright,” He says after a moment, trying to believe his own words. “I will find your fathers.”

He stands, disentangling himself from her, and she follows, setting her shoulders back and pursing her lips seriously in a way very reminiscent of Aelineth.

“And what of me?”

“I need you to stay here. Silifail,” He gestures to the nér beside him. “Will help you organise the fort – for your people and for the injured. I need you here.”

“Yes Anno.”

He smiles. “Good girl. I’ll be back.”

* * *

Maedhros lost his soldiers about five minutes into the choking cloud of ash.

With a long strip of fabric over his nose and mouth, tied tightly to avoid smoke inhalation, he rode through the suffocating heat, searching for anyone he could find and pointing them in the vague direction of the rest of the army.

He gave his horse soon into the ash cloud to a group of soldiers who needed him to transport their wounded and he has to continue on foot, not stopping for too long for fear of the hot ground burning through the soles of his shoes as he’d seen in many of the soldiers he’d directed the way he’d come.

He tells himself as he goes that he _will_ find Maglor but it is becoming increasingly more and more difficult to believe.

His eyes are streaming and it is becoming more and more difficult to breathe when he comes across Aelineth.

“Russandol!” She brings him into a hug before pulling away again. Her squinting eyes are bloodshot and she is clearly favouring her left side, blood seeping through the fabric of her trousers. She is no longer wearing armour. “The Gap fell,” She says mournfully. “We could barely hold it for an hour before we were overrun and needed to retreat. Did Ivárë reach you?”

“Yes. She is as safe as she can be within Himring’s walls.”

“Good.” Aelineth nods seriously. She glances behind her to the ragtag collection of elves she has at her side, mingling and tying off each other’s wounds. “We were making our way there ourselves.”

“Maglor?”

Aelineth’s face twists. “I don’t…I don’t know. There was a giant lizard-”

“Dragons.” Maedhros curls his hand at his side as he recalls how exactly they were created.

“I…I suppose. There was only one that I could see. He-” Aelineth breaks off into a coughing fit. Maedhros can see blood blossom on the disgusting rag keeping the ash from her mouth.

Maedhros feels his stomach drop. “He didn’t try to fight it did he?”

Aelineth only nods.

“Fucking hell Maglor!” He takes in a shaky breath, trying to calm his anger. “I have a camp set up outside the dust cloud and I have plenty of men scouring for survivors. Make your way there.”

“And you’ll look for Maglor on your own? Not on my watch.”

“You have your people to look after. And I am in far better shape than you at the moment.”

Aelineth sighs and turns away sharply, addressing her soldiers and directing them forward. “Don’t you dare die. I refuse to lose two children today.”

Maedhros rolls his eyes. “I’m not a child.”

“I helped _raise_ you Nelyo.” And that is the last thing she says directly to him, turning to help carry another elf.

* * *

A pair of elves finds him before he finds someone else.

“Lord Maedhros, is that you?”

“Yes.” He turns to the voice to see the young faces of his brother’s wards (at least, that is what he thinks they are). The relief is palpable in the air when they see him – or that could be the heat, he isn’t sure.

“Lord Maedhros,” One of them says again. “We…Maglor fought a…a-”

“Dragon?” Maedhros supplies, wishing that his brother was not so stupid.

The boy’s face creases in confusion and worry and a lot of emotions that Maedhros can’t determine from behind his makeshift mask. “Maybe? I don’t know what it was called. I saw…I think I saw him fall and-”

“What?” Maedhros grabs the boy by his arms before he thinks. “You saw him fall?”

“I think!” The boy looks utterly terrified. “I think, I…I…I…” He trails off as his tongue fails him and Maedhros realises what he is doing.

He releases him and takes a hasty step back.

The boy’s brother comes up beside him, his chin stuck out stubbornly. “Daeron was with him. He was furious. Don’t do that again.”

Under normal circumstances, Maedhros would be apologising profusely for his discourteous actions. Unfortunately, these are not normal circumstances, and he can only think of his little brother in pain.

He waves vaguely behind him. “I saw Aelineth behind. And we have a camp set up outside the ash that should be easy to see.”

He turns away from them and plunges further into the disorienting cloud of death.

* * *

_“Nelyafinwë, meet your new brother.”_

_Maitimo stood on his tiptoes to look over the side of the bed and at the baby in his mother’s arms. She laughed, exhaustion in her breath, and his father lifted him up to settle him on the blankets._

_“He’s very small,” Maitimo said eventually. “And pudgy. And why is he all wrinkly?”_

_“That’s just what babies are like Nelyo.” His father settled himself behind him on the bed. “He’ll unwrinkle.”_

_Maitimo scrunched his nose. “I won’t be able to play with him, will I? You said I would.” He glared accusingly at his father who huffed in response._

_“Yes. But only when he’s older. Don’t be put out Nelyo – you were walking by the time you were three quarters of a year and talking well before that. I am sure that your brother will be similar and you shall be able to play soon.”_

* * *

_“Atto said you would be able to talk by now,” Maitimo said, flopping onto the floor beside his little brother. Makalaurë blinked up at him from his colouring with wide eyes and giggled as Maitimo made the funny face he always seemed to want. “It’s been a year and a half! And you’ve been walking for_ ages _!”_

_Makalaurë didn’t have an answer for that. He instead showed Maitimo the vague scribbles he had drawn on his paper, tapping his hand against the floor in quick motions. Despite the lack of any clear borders and the seemingly erratic nature of the colours chosen, Maitimo could make a fairly accurate guess as to what it depicted._

_“Is that Ammë’s pear tree?”_

_Makalaurë grinned widely and nodded, his tapping increasing in pace._

_“It’s very good,” Maitimo praised, before picking up a fresh piece of paper and another of the crayons. “Now how about I draw something and you colour it in?”_

* * *

_Maitimo was admiring a writing set in the window of one of Tirion’s shops, contemplating whether_ this _was what he wanted to spend his allowance on or if he might save his money for next week (it was his eleventh begetting soon and he was hoping that someone might give him a smart calligraphy set anyway), when he felt a small tug on his sleeve._

_Makalaurë pointed over at the music shop opposite, his other hand fluttering excitedly by his side. This was the first year that Makalaurë was getting an allowance too and he had been let loose onto the streets of Tirion with his brother for the first time._

_“Is there something there you want?”_

_Makalaurë nodded, looking completely sure of himself._

_“Do you want me to get it for you?”_

_Makalaurë nodded again, looking at him hopefully. Maitimo couldn’t say no to his brother._

_And frankly, it was more of a hassle to deal with store owners who refused to serve someone just because they didn’t speak than to do the buying for Makalaurë._

_Plus, it would give him some time to contemplate his own purchase._

_They arrived back to the small market where their parents were perusing the goods – Maitimo with nothing (he had decided to wait until_ after _his begetting day because even if he didn’t get a writing set, he would have saved up enough to get an even better one than in the shop window) and Makalaurë with a violin held in his arms like it was the most precious thing in the world, his fingers tapping against the case to an invisible melody._

_At least it would mean that he would stop stealing Maitimo’s flute._

_Hopefully._

* * *

_“Ailowë, do you…do_ you _think something’s wrong with Kano?”_

 _Maitimo stopped short in the corridor as he heard his mother’s voice float out of Ailowë’s open door. Nothing was_ wrong _with Makalaurë, was there?_

 _“Nothing is wrong with him.” Maitimo sighed in relief as he heard their steward’s no-nonsense voice agree with him. “I know you’re worried but Kanafinwë will speak when he’ll speak and if he doesn’t, well, then he just doesn’t. He is clever and gifted with his written words and his music. He can speak with his hands, if you are truly worried about communication – we’ve worked on it. There is nothing_ wrong _, just different. Anyone who says otherwise is just scared of that.”_

Exactly _, Maitimo thought as he continued on down the corridor. He didn’t know why Ammë was so worried._

* * *

_“Do you ever wonder if you named him wrong?” Maitimo’s aunt asked. Maitimo froze where he stood, not wanting to take another step towards the kitchen for fear of catching his parents’ attention._

_Beside him, Makalaurë froze too._

_“Who?” Fëanáro asked, cooler than he usually was when he talked to Findis._

_“You know, Kanafinwë.”_

_“And why would you think that?” Fëanáro’s voice demanded no argument or disagreement and there was threat of terrible repercussions if the next words were wrong. Findis apparently lost her nerve because she mumbled something and the conversation was dropped._

_‘What does he mean?’ Was tapped gently against Maitimo’s arm and Maitimo shrugged, reminded of the conversation he had heard between his mother and Ailowë a while ago._

* * *

_Maitimo was certain that there was nothing wrong with his little brother but everyone else seemed to disagree._

_Even Makalaurë._

_“Hey, Laurë?” No-one called him Kanafinwë anymore, not even their father. “You’ve been in there all day, is something wrong?”_

_There was no answering knock or shuffle or hummed note._

_“Laurë?”_

_When there continued to be no answer, Maitimo pushed the bedroom door open._

_Makalaurë was kneeling in the centre of his carpet, his sleeves pushed up past his elbow, and the skin of his forearms was red and bleeding and he was silently crying, tears streaming down his face._

_“Makalaurë!” Maitimo exclaimed, a hundred and one different things screeching through his mind before he fell to his knees beside him and took his hands, stopping his bloodstained fingernails from continuing to create furrows in his skin. “Makalaurë, what are you doing?”_

_Makalaurë shrugged, looking lost and confused and distraught._

_“Do you want me to get Atto? Or Ammë? Or-”_

_“‘m…I…broken?” Makalaurë mumbled, cutting off Maitimo’s frantic queries. His voice is quiet and hoarse from disuse but it manages to fill the room._

_“What? No. Of course not!” Maitimo sat up straight in indignation. He took a deep breath and let himself relax so as not to sound deranged (Andatya had said that the best arguments were said quietly and with conviction) as he massaged the back of Makalaurë’s hand. “Of course you’re not,” He says again, quieter and more firm. “Why would you think something like that?”_

_Makalaurë shrugged again, letting his head fall onto Maitimo’s shoulder._

* * *

Maedhros never found out why but it was clear to him that Maglor believed this misconception (and Maedhros is _certain_ that this is a misconception) deeply. He had made an effort ever since to speak as perfectly as he could – not that that was necessarily a bad thing – but he spoke even when Maedhros could see that he would much rather not be.

Maedhros just wanted his baby brother to be happy and safe not to be somewhere in the middle of a giant cloud of ash and fire and heat fighting the spawn of bloody Morgoth.

It had been looking so _good_ as well; they had _all_ been happy for the first time in years in love and with children and with kingdoms that prospered and husbands and wives and-

Maedhros bites back an angry scream at the universe as he treads through the ash-sodden fields.

* * *

He sees the light before he sees the people.

There is a thin, golden dome of light hovering over the ground through the choking cloud hanging over him.

Maedhros thinks that it’s something of Morgoth’s at first but then he sees the orcs he is fighting being physically repelled and thrown back as they attempt to cross the border of light.

There are a few elves in various state of unconsciousness as he arrives and…

“Fuck,” He says as he sees the cause of the dome of light: Daeron certainly is the son of a Maia.

The half-maia in question turns his head at Maedhros’ arrival as Maedhros beheads the last of the orcs.

“Lord Maedhros?” It comes as if from multiple voices, eerily similar to when Maglor opens himself to the Music just…more intense, somehow. One of the arms points at Maglor’s prone body on the floor and suddenly, nothing else matters to Maedhros.

He falls to his knees beside him, vaguely aware of Daeron marching off to the edge of their shielded area.

There is a faint, fluttering breath in Maglor’s chest and a sluggish pulse under Maedhros’ fingers.

“My lord?” One of the other elves asks tentatively and Maedhros looks up, a fell fire in his eyes.

“We leave. Now.”

* * *

The ash cloud seems to have grown since Maedhros entered it because by the time he exits, three orc attacks later with his brother still clutched in his arms, Himring is visible on the horizon and there is no camp anymore.

He stumbles along with the seven soldiers who had been under Daeron’s protection towards the promise of some sort of safety behind Himring’s walls.

Daeron is…well, Maedhros is not entirely sure where his brother-in-law is. He does not know how he will explain this to Maglor if Daeron doesn’t reappear ( ~~and if Maglor wakes up~~ ).

* * *

Ivárë appears almost the moment that the gates shut behind Maedhros and the ragtag group of people he’s collected (another two joined on the fields and another as they climbed the mountain).

“Anno Nelyo?” She asks and then, very quietly: “Atto?”

Maedhros calls for a healer without replying and he finally gives Maglor over to someone else’s care. He doesn’t want to – he wants, for one desperate minute, to be the one to care and heal his brother – but reality is here and he has a fortress that he needs to get in order and a war to fight and he wouldn’t have the skill anyway.

He turns back to his niece and attempts a smile. “He is alive,” He says. “There is no need to fret – the healers will not let him pass over the sea. Now, come,” He offers her his arm and a distraction from the chaos around them. “Tell me what you’ve been doing around here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-Canon Names:  
> Silifail - Lake of the Moon (Sindarin)  
> Ailowë - Lake Woman (Quenya)
> 
> Quenya Translations:  
> Anno - Uncle (Informal)  
> Atto - Father (Informal)  
> Ammë - Mother (Informal)


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!
> 
> It is I! I am here with chapter 14! I apologise in advance :)
> 
> Thank you [oliviacat3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliviacat3/pseuds/oliviacat3) for beta'ing.
> 
> And I hope you enjoy!

Makalaurë wakes up with a throbbing headache.

He groans slightly, trying to think as to what he was doing last night but coming up blank. He probably drank too much then at…well, he’s not sure. Searching his mind feels weird and alien as if he is not even in his own body.

He blinks his eyes open into a dark room.

“Maglor! You’re awake!”

At his brother’s voice, Makalaurë goes to push himself upright but his arms don’t want to co-operate, barely moving an inch above the mattress. Instead, he turns his head causing pain to course down his spine and he hisses, automatically going to curl up but finding himself unable.

“Maglor!” Maitimo appears in Makalaurë’s blurry vision and crouches down, stroking back his hair from his face. Makalaurë thinks that his brother doesn’t quite look right. “I’ll go get the-”

“Me?” Makalaurë asks, cutting his brother off. His throat is sore and it is difficult to even get that one syllable out – Makalaurë really doesn’t know what on all of Arda he had been doing last night and the entire situation is thoroughly disorienting.

“Yes, you.” Maitimo’s face scrunches up in confusion. “Do you know any other Maglors?”

“‘m not…’m…” His throat closes up and refuses to work. His hands are uselessly weighed down by his sides and will not move for him. He grimaces in frustration, hating how his voice sometimes just doesn’t, no matter how hard he tries.

“Shh.” Maitimo continues to stroke back his hair. “Your throat is injured. The healers said you shouldn’t talk to help it heal, OK?”

Makalaurë hesitates before nodding.

His eye sight is beginning to unblur now and he can get a better look at his brother. Faint scars litter his skin and something dark peaks out from under the collar of his shirt. Not to mention the deep bags under his eyes and how utterly exhausted and downtrodden he looks.

He gets his hand, with some difficulty, to rest on Maitimo’s arm and taps out a soft ‘What happened?’ with his fingers.

Maitimo looks at him, looking as confused as Makalaurë feels. “Don’t you remember?”

‘Nothing. Are Ammë and Atto furious?’

A spark of fear has settled itself in Maitimo’s eyes and Makalaurë supposes that that is answer enough.

He sighs and leans back in his bed.

“Maglor…”

Makalaurë huffs in frustration. ‘I’m not this Maglor you keep speaking of.’ He taps out.

“Yes you are. What are you talking about?” A note of something has crept into Maitimo’s voice. “You told me so when I got out of Angband, remember?”

Makalaurë looks back at his brother, confused and a little bit angry. ‘Maitimo, I thought you were too old for pranks.’

“It’s not a – Mag…Maka… _Kano_ , what is the last thing you remember?”

Makalaurë searches the recesses of his mind for a moment but comes up blank. He _knows_ things but actual memories seem to drift out of his grasp. He tries harder but memories are elusive and stay firmly out of his grasp.

He feels his breath hitch as he shakily taps out an ‘I don’t know’ onto Maitimo’s skin.

Maitimo’s muscles contract under Makalaurë’s featherlight touch and his breathing begins to speed up for a moment before Maitimo seems to get himself under control. “I…OK…OK…Makalaurë, this is…this is really important. I need you to…I need you to be _really_ brave for me, alright?”

Makalaurë can feel Maitimo’s fear across the bond they share and it is making him terrified.

“OK.” Maitimo appears in his vision again. “Let me help you sit up. It might be…might be easier then.”

Makalaurë lets Maitimo lift him up and settle him against the few pillows on the bed. The completely emotionless mask that Maitimo is wearing is not helping to quiet Makalaurë’s general feeling of unease at the entire situation.

“OK. OK.” Maitimo swallows, taking Makalaurë’s hand in his own and – Makalaurë’s eyes grow wide when he realises that Maitimo only has one hand.

He makes an odd whining noise, that had been attempting to be a comforting hum but was distorted by his painful throat. Frustrated tears bubble up in his eyes and he blinks them away furiously.

“Oh _Kano_. I-” Maitimo hides his stump behind his thigh on the other leg. “I’ll get there.” He massages the back of Makalaurë’s hand like he always does when he’s delivering bad news. “Makalaurë, you’ve got amnesia.”

Makalaurë jerks involuntarily at the news, but his hand stays firmly in Maitimo’s.

“It’s…it’s alright because I’ll be here, OK? But a lot has happened that you don’t seem to recall. We’re not in Valinor anymore.”

Makalaurë’s mind goes blank for a good minute and on an automatic response, he begins to tap out ‘That’s fine.’ before he realises what Maitimo has actually said.

“We’re in Beleriand. We came here to fight Morgoth…Melkor even. He stole something of Atto’s. You were just in a battle.”

“…what…?” Makalaurë whispers painfully, his mind spinning. The hand not in Maitimo’s drifts, as it always does, to his wrist but is gently batted away.

“It’s…it’ll be alright. I’m here, OK?”

Makalaurë nods, his head spinning.

“Don’t cry Laurë.” A gentle thumb wipes away tears that Makalaurë had no idea he’d been shedding. “I’m right here. I won’t leave you.”

Maitimo’s arms wrap their way around Makalaurë and he leans into them gratefully.

* * *

There are whispers when Daeron walks his way into the group of refugees from Himlad.

He supposes that that is only natural, considering the fact that he is certain he is glowing and he is not constricting the aura of power that comes from being the son of a maia. People had always whispered about Lúthien, who had never had such trouble as he had had with his powers.

“Daeron.” Curufin looks awful. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“You need Doriath’s help, correct?”

Curufin nods, looking bemused.

“Then I shall get it for you.”

This had been part of the reason why he had chosen to go west to Curufin and Celegorm instead of East to Caranthir and Amras when he was sure he had found the last of the Gap’s residence in the cloud of ash. He knows that they will not get leave to pass through Doriath without help and he might _just_ know a way to convince his mother.

If he can play his cards right.

He cannot see Maglor lose another brother to this godforsaken war.

“What? How-” Curufin stops, still looking thoroughly confused, before a look of resignation falls over his grieving features. “Please. We can’t lose anyone else and the quickest way to Nargothrond is through Doriath.”

Daeron nods and brushes past, ignoring the whispers that follow him.

The Himlad refugees have made their camp for the night fairly close to the border. Daeron bristles when he sees the Marchwardens just watching them – it is not _their_ fault but Daeron is furious anyway.

He touches the border. It is invisible to the naked eye but Daeron is part Maia and can see the way it is formed, of ancient magic tied to the life force of the world around it.

He feels his mother react at once.

 _Tifanto, you returned_ , she says across the gap between their minds. _I did not realise you missed me so much._

 _I came to make a request_ , Daeron returns, not reacting to her obvious goading. He takes a deep breath before he makes his offer – he has had a long time to think this over but it does not make it any less difficult to say. _Let the Ñoldor through your lands and I shall once more return to your side. I will be the son that you want me to be and will rescind all ties to the Ñoldor._

He feels his mother’s obvious surprise at that but it is covered up hastily at the thought of having her dollhouse once more perfect. _I…suppose that we may be able to achieve that. But only if the refugees are out of our lands in two days, no longer. Lead them yourself and then return to me when you are finished._

His mother’s mind retreats again and Daeron lets his hand fall – his mother has lost none of her obvious authoritarian nature.

As he steadies his breathing once more, he wonders as to whether Maglor is alright but then he banishes that thought from his head. He must focus on getting Maglor’s brothers to safety and then he can worry about Maglor – there is, after all, nothing he can do for him that the healers at Himring cannot already do.

But helping his brothers – _that_ Daeron is well-equipped for.

And he has needed to go back to Doriath for a long time now.

* * *

 _“Maglor Fëanorion,” a slithering voice whispers into the dark of Makalaurë’s mind. “You dare stand before_ me _, Father of Dragons, the greatest and most terrible of Lord Melkor’s creations?”_

_The voice laughs, deep and rumbling, and it shakes Makalaurë to the very core._

_“Your pitiful music shall not break me. I am beyond such things. I am more powerful than that._ Far _more powerful.”_

_Makalaurë spins around in his mind, looking, searching for the source of the voice desperately. He wants it to stop, he wants it to get out of his head._

_“Look into my eyes,” it taunts, the words coming off the tongue in a sing-song tone. “Look into my eyes and_ weep _!”_

 _An eye, bright and piercing and an evil shade of red and yellow, snaps open in the dark in front of him and Makalaurë meets it’s gaze with his own. There is a flurry of_ knowing _before the gates to his memories are once more shut._

Makalaurë wakes, breathing heavily, with the _thing’s_ laughter ringing in his ears.

Beside him, there is his harp – and it is actually his – with a short note from Maitimo saying that he had to go and accomplish some work in the fortress but that he would be back later with a healer and some food.

Makalaurë leaves the note on the bedside table and picks up his harp. The wood and the metal and the string under his fingers feel so very familiar and Makalaurë huffs in frustration as he can feel a memory dancing just out of reach that connects itself to the instrument.

He has to let it go and be content.

There is a lot of music in Makalaurë’s head that he has never heard before but seems to now be intrinsic in his memory. Sad songs, that speak of heartache and death, that he does not want to play for fear of bringing up some terrible evil.

He plays them all the same, in the hopes that this might trigger something in him and release the memories his mind is holding back from him and remove him from this befuddling state of unknown.

It didn’t work but it _was_ remarkably calming to play the music anyway. There was a familiarity to them that Makalaurë revelled in for it meant that the memories _were_ there even if he couldn’t access them.

There was a knock on the door and it’s pushed open.

A young elleth with green eyes and brown hair pulled up into a messy bun on the top of her head peeks her head around the door, her face open with what looks like hope.

Makalaurë smiles absently. He is more in control of his muscles than when he spoke with Maitimo so he signs a polite ‘May I help you?’ in the hopes that she would understand.

Her face falls as her eyes follow the simple hand gestures. “Anno Maedhros was right then,” She whispers so softly that Makalaurë nearly misses it. She gives Makalaurë a smile that conveys no joy or happiness at all. “No, no, wrong room.”

She hesitates before she retreats, shutting the door behind her with a soft click.

A moment later, he hears a muffled scream of pain and heartbreak down the corridor.

Makalaurë blinks, pushing down the instinct to go and comfort her. He doesn’t _know_ this girl. She probably wouldn’t appreciate it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya Translations:  
> Ammë - Mother (Informal)  
> Atto - Father (Informal)  
> Anno - Uncle (Informal)


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!
> 
> Here is chapter 15. I drew (or at least attempted to draw) [Ivárë](https://mockingjay-468.tumblr.com/post/644266412750372864/this-is-my-attempt-to-draw-iv%C3%A1r%C3%AB-kanafinwion-from) and posted it on Tumblr, if you wanted to see how I imagined her.
> 
> Thank you to [oliviacat3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliviacat3/pseuds/oliviacat3) for beta'ing!
> 
> TW - There is reference to Child abuse in this chapter and manipulative parents.
> 
> And I hope you enjoy!

“What did you do?”

Daeron has felt Celegorm’s eyes on him throughout the day they have stumbled through the forest (it is crazy that Melian expects them to get through in under two days but Daeron knows from experience that he wouldn’t have been able to convince her to give them more time; if anything, it would probably have made her more unreasonable) and had been expecting a confrontation like this.

“What are you talking about?” Daeron asks, continuing down the path. He has stopped singing a Song of Power to speed up their journey for a moment for those they are leading to recuperate as he knows how weird it feels to have someone else control what you do, even to such a minor degree.

Celegorm glances back at Curufin who appears to be having a hushed conversation with Celebrimbor. “What did you do to convince the witch that we may pass through?” He asks, lowering his voice.

“That is none of your concern.” Daeron treads on a twig and winces as the sound echoes in the quiet of the group.

“It is if it will hurt Maglor.”

“It won’t. I love Maglor and nothing could bring me to harm him.” He bites his lip. It is not a lie, per se, but he does not know how effective his plan will actually _be_.

“I know. I’m sure you’re aware that if anything _did_ happen to him, you would have five, very angry Fëanorians coming after you.”

“If Aelineth doesn’t hang me first.”

Celegorm rolls his eyes and falls back again to walk beside his brother and nephew as Daeron picks his song back up.

* * *

Makalaurë is slowly losing his mind – well, what’s left of it.

He has been stuck in this room for days (he thinks: he’s not entirely sure how time works in relation to the sun and the moon) and has had no company bar the odd appearance of his brother or Ailowë who are both very busy with running a fortress and commanding a war effort.

It is not from any physical limitation. In fact, he recovered fairly quickly as the only things physically wrong with him were burns that were cursory at worst and his throat which was clear of injury once again after two days.

No, he is stuck in this room because Maitimo insisted.

“It’s for your own good,” He said and as Makalaurë loves and trusts his brother, he does not argue and stays put. Ailowë also seems to agree with Maitimo on this matter and Makalaurë isn’t going to disagree with both of them, particularly as they actually know what is going on.

That doesn’t mean that Makalaurë isn’t intensely bored.

There is, after all, only so many times you can play through your repertoire before you begin to feel that the notes have ingrained themselves in your head and are beginning to warp into the Music itself.

He would compose a new song but his mind is blank whenever he tries as if he is missing something important to the composition process; although he can’t for the life of him think what.

So it is to his intense relief when there is a knock on the door.

“Come in!” He calls out, stilling his hands on the harp strings and uncurling his legs onto the floor.

The girl who had poked her head around his door when he had first woken up steps into the room, looking a bit uncomfortable.

“May I help you?” Makalaurë asks, setting his harp to the side and folding his hands in his lap.

“I’m Ivárë,” She says and opens her mouth to say something else before closing it again, indecision clear on her face.

“I’m Makalaurë,” Makalaurë supplies helpfully. “Did my brother send you?”

“No.” Her eyes light up. “I am here illegally because he wants to keep things from you. I said that that was stupid but he overruled me because he’s older.” She pouts.

Makalaurë is momentarily conflicted – he probably should continue to listen to his brother who almost definitely knows what is right in this situation. Maitimo said that he would tell him more about himself in the future but right now there was a good chance that he would be overwhelmed with information. Which was understandable.

But he is _so_ bored and he would really like to know more about everything, however ill-advised that might be.

He leans forward. “I would not be opposed to the idea.”

She grins. “First thing’s first – Ivárë is short for Ivárifinwë and I’m your daughter.”

* * *

The streets of Menegroth are filled with people and they watch with wide, curious eyes. Daeron doesn’t know what _they’ve_ been told about him, for it is surely different to what everyone outside the girdle thinks.

He ignores their silent gazes as he walks down and towards the throne room.

“Ernil Daeron,” The herald calls as he walks through the already open doors of the hall.

His parents sit on their thrones, Lúthien is pretending not to be ecstatic just beside them and the courtiers are arrayed down either side as they always are. Melian smiles in a way that is both warm and freezing cold as his father rises from his seat.

“It is wonderful to see you safe, ion-nin.” He glides gracefully forward in a way far too reminiscent of Melian for Thingol to be entirely in control. “I am beyond glad that you escaped your Ñoldorin captors.” He presses a kiss to his forehead and steps back. “Welcome home, Daeron.”

The world freezes and, in that moment, Daeron realises something.

He has no idea why he came here. He has no idea what possessed him to walk into his mother’s open arms so willingly and he has no plan to get out.

He is back as his mother’s plaything.

It might be his imagination but he thinks he sees his mother’s smile momentarily sharpen from where she sits.

“And I am ever grateful that I have returned,” Daeron says, putting on a false smile and playing along with his mother’s game. “I have missed home.”

* * *

“I am sorry,” Makalaurë says softly as Ivárë finishes her story. It is still missing information – there were plenty of gaps in it for there _not_ to be missing information – but the story is new and now Makalaurë _knows_ things.

Ivárë scrunches her nose. “For what?”

“That I do not know you. I must be a fairly abysmal father.”

“No! No, of course not!” Ivárë leans forward where she is sitting on the end of the bed. “You were – _are_ – a wonderful father to me. And you can’t help your amnesia. I’m sure that Anno Nelyo will find a way to get your memories back.”

Makalaurë purses his lips, not quite believing her but not knowing enough to refute her words either.

“Oh, don’t do that.” She prods his knee. “Ada says it’s your sad face.”

Her other father – Daeron, she said. Makalaurë is curious about the man that he married for all that the name brings about a flicker of recollection deep in his mind, he knows nothing of him.

“Tell me more.”

Ivárë raises an eyebrow in concern. “Would that be…wise? Anno Nelyo wasn’t wrong when he said that the information might be overwhelming.”

“Nothing big,” Maglor insists. “Just small things. Stories that you can remember. I would like to know more about you. And…and Daeron.”

* * *

“Dae!” Lúthien practically flies at him as the meeting is finished and the room begins to disperse. She throws her arms around him and he spins around just to stop himself from bowling over. “I’m so, so happy you’re back. Are you alright? Nana said how the Ñoldor imprisoned you.” She frowns. “It sounds like it was awful – was Maglor Fëanorion a terrible captor?”

“Of course,” Melian says in a silky voice, lying a hand on Daeron’s shoulder. Daeron tries not to tense. “Beleg said how he tried to rescue you from those horrible conditions but that the Ñoldo enchanted him. I’m glad that the attack from the Enemy gave you the opportunity to escape.”

“Yes.” Daeron tries to say that he is glad too but the words refuse to leave his tongue.

Lúthien looks at him with wide eyes. “Oh Daeron,” She says. “That’s awful. But you’re safe here. And now you can stay forever more.”

“Isn’t that right Daeron?”

“Yes,” Daeron whispers, wishing it didn’t sound like he had signed his life away.

* * *

“It’s a beautiful flute,” Makalaurë says, admiring the flute that Ivárë has passed him. “It’s not completely Ñoldor in design though.”

“No.” She takes the flute back. “It’s also of Sindar design. I wanted to make something between that mixes both my heritages.”

Makalaurë smiles. “I think you have done just that.”

“I played it for-”

She is cut off by a knock on the door. “Makalaurë?”

Makalaurë shares a look with his daughter. “Yes Maitimo?” He asks, aware of Ivárë tucking her instrument under her arm and climbing out of the open window.

“May I come in?”

“Uh…” Makalaurë stalls for time until Ivárë is completely gone and then: “Yes, yes.”

The door opens with a soft click and Maitimo steps in. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine, Nelyo.” Makalaurë finds himself tensing in his brother’s presence from containing a sudden flare of anger. “I haven’t been anywhere. Nothing can happen to me here.”

Maitimo purses his lips. “I want to protect you Laurë. And I can’t let-”

“Where’s Daeron?”

Maitimo stops. “How did-”

“I remembered. His name. He seemed…important. Where is he?”

“We don’t-” Maitimo steps further into the room and sets the tray with two bowls of stew on the bedside table. “Eat.” He thrusts one of the bowls into Makalaurë’s hands without answering, a sure sign that something is wrong.

Makalaurë takes a morose spoonful of stew.

Maybe he shouldn’t have asked Ivárë about Daeron. It seems he has set himself up for disappointment.

* * *

Daeron is back in his bedroom.

He has been sitting on the edge of the bed since his father gave him a distant good night and disappeared down the corridor.

He shouldn’t have returned.

“Don’t think like that.”

Daeron feels every muscle in his body tense and his breathing speed up involuntarily. He keeps his eyes trained on the opposite wall, not looking as his mother enters the room and comes to sit beside him.

“I’m sorry, Tifanto.” She reaches out as if to take his hand in hers but stops, hovering just above, before retracting it completely. “I have had a long time to think, ion-nin. I see now that I was too harsh on you. I just wanted to see you grow to be strong and successful and I didn’t know how to do that.”

Daeron stays exactly where he is, not saying anything or deigning to look at her.

She sighs. “Tifanto, I really am sorry. I just want everything to be perfect for you. You were making mistakes and I just needed to correct them. That’s why I got you to come here.”

“So it was you in my thoughts?” Daeron’s voice sounds dead to his own ears. It was so, _so_ easy to just slip back into the nothing-person he was before.

“When you were using your Maia powers, I could sense you so much stronger – and I am _so_ proud of you for gaining control of your powers – and I tried to tell you that you needed to come back. I wasn’t in your thoughts at all, the distance between us just diluted the words I was trying to send into feelings, that’s all.”

Her voice is silky and twists into his thoughts. He…he wants to believe her. He wants to-

But no. He is _not_ here of his own free will. He would have found a better way to get Celegorm and Curufin to Nargothrond than to give himself up. He would have taken them north and found a way to protect them from the world or…or taken them to Himring until they had recovered enough or…or anything really.

Celegorm or Curufin’s death would have destroyed Maglor but his mother will make him pretend that he no longer loves Maglor and that is no better.

And Filegol! He can’t abandon his daughter and yet he has – she has just lost everything for the second time and he is here playing a part in his mother’s game instead of at her side where he should be.

He does not even know if Himring will stand against the onslaught.

“Oh, Tifanto, don’t cry.” His mother smells of belladonna and roses when she wipes away his tears and pulls him into an embrace. “It will all be OK. You’re home now.”

Home.

Daeron is not home.

Home is far away, crushed under the weight of a dragon and burnt in the fires of war.

Home is warm fires, sweet music and Filegol’s bright laughter, Aelineth’s amused eyeroll, the flick of the pages of Amdír’s book, Tegoluin’s long explanations of her newest obsession, the scratch of Oropher’s pencil, Maglor…Maglor leaning into his side with a tired smile on his face and half asleep. They are all safe and content and happy.

Home is where Daeron’s family is.

There is the high call of a nightingale that echoes through the draughty corridors, high and melancholy as his mother gently gets him into bed, presses a kiss to his forehead and disappears out of the door.

His family hasn’t been here in a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin Translations:  
> Ernil - Prince  
> Ion-nin - My son  
> Ada - Father (Informal)
> 
> Quenya Translations:  
> Anno - Uncle (Informal)


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!
> 
> It is I! I bring you chapter 16! So, my plan for this series is to finish this story and then finish Fate and Flowers and after that, I shall see. I will post Fëanorian Week on the correct days and also I plan on writing Gondolin Week in this AU as well. I have a few other stories planned as well, so lots (hopefully, if I don’t lose interest, which is always possible with me but I shall try) to look forward to!
> 
> Lots of thanks to [oliviacat3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliviacat3/pseuds/oliviacat3) for beta’ing as always!
> 
> TW - There is dissociation, manipulation and child abuse (at least implied if not actually there).
> 
> And I hope you enjoy!

Daeron can’t really feel anything as his hand forms the familiar shapes of letters.

He feels numb, as if he isn’t really there.

That would be nice. Maybe then he wouldn’t be breaking Maglor’s heart.

“I know it’s hard, Tifanto.” His mother lays a hand on his shoulder and he doesn’t flinch. He registered the feeling of it’s weight distantly as if it is happening to someone else entirely. He can’t bring himself to react. “But you have to see that the Fëanorion didn’t love you truly. He was only using you for politics. It is what these Ñoldor are like.”

Daeron knows his mother is lying – he trusts nothing from her mouth – but the mere thought of actively disobeying her and the punishment that would surely follow makes him exhausted and he can’t bring himself to do it.

His quill moves slowly, words coming from his subconscious and pouring onto the page like honey. He signs his name – well, it’s not his name, not really; nothing she gives him is _his_ – and Melian smiles, squeezing his shoulder gently in what she must suppose to be a comforting manner.

“Good boy,” She whispers, pressing a kiss to his forehead and picking the letter up with claw like finger nails, folding it with a swipe of her nails. “Now, how about we go to supper?”

He stands up and lets her guide him from the room.

* * *

_Dear Maglor Fëanorion,_

_I cannot return to your side. I don’t love you and I never have. I don’t want to return to the cage that you created for me. I have come to the realisation that you trapped me away from my true family with false words. This may very well be the last correspondence we have. My home will be here as it always has been._

_I will be staying here where I will be safe away from you. I still cannot see what you gained from your false seduction. I cannot love you, even if in your deceits you have grown to love me in whatever, twisted way. Even if you claim that you have affection for me still, I shall be remaining here where I belong._

_Please do not reply. I don’t wish to hear from you again. I might hate you, you know? You would have me as your willing servant and I will not be that for you._

_Tifanto Melianion_

* * *

A letter falls into Makalaurë’s lap.

“Read this.” Ivárë looks somewhere between tears and utter fury.

The letter is not long and at the end, Makalaurë looks up sharply. “Did I really…?” He trails off, staring at the piece of paper. He can’t believe that he would but there is so much of his memory missing, he doesn’t _know_.

“No. These are all lies.”

Oh, the _bastard_.

“Are you OK?” He asks, anger bubbling up that this man dare to abandon his daughter. He does not know him from anything beyond Ivárë’s stories and had _thought_ that he had been a good person.

Apparently, that assessment had been wrong.

The anger intensifies as he realises that this letter was meant for Maglor and from what Makalaurë can gather, Maglor would have been distraught at this news.

Ivárë shakes her head vehemently, a fire burning in her eyes. “It’s not him writing. I _know_ it’s not but no-one will believe me.”

“And what makes you so sure?” Makalaurë is not familiar with any situation like this but he _is_ familiar with grief – his father had been grieving his whole life and he supposes that losing a parent to fading is not so different to losing a parent to abandonment. The best thing, Makalaurë supposes, is to let her get out her emotions in the least destructive way possible and not to inhibit the way that she chooses to grieve.

If no-one else will do this then Makalaurë will. He is supposed to be her father after all.

“He signed his name wrong. He _never_ calls himself by his mother-name. Ever.”

“Maybe it was part of the lie he was concocting.” Makalaurë suggests tentatively but Ivárë shakes her head again.

“That’s not all. When I realised that something was wrong, I realised something.” She takes a deep breath. “When I was little, I had a phase when I loved codes. I would follow Tegoluin – I’ve told you about her, right?” Makalaurë nods. “Right. Well, I would follow Tegoluin around whenever I could and ask her about all these different ciphers and codes, that sort of thing. And so, one night, you and he and I made up our own little code which we called Rest Time because when you count a long time of rest in music, you go 1, 2, 3, 4 and then 2, 2, 3, 4, starting each new bar with the number of bars it has been since you started counting. This works similarly.”

She takes the letter from Makalaurë’s hands and flattens it on the bedside table, taking a piece of charcoal from a pouch on her belt. Makalaurë watches curiously as she underlines different words in each sentence.

“The first letter of the first sentence – I. The second word of the second sentence – don’t. The third word of the third sentence – want. And so on. A new paragraph is a new sentence and you start again. The whole message reads: ‘I don’t want to be here. I still love you. Please don’t hate me.’”

“Oh shit.” Makalaurë looks over the message with a critical gaze. “I suppose that makes sense…”

“You don’t believe me either, do you?” Ivárë says, her face scrunching up.

Ivárë isn’t going to give this up – Makalaurë can feel that well enough. He only really has one option.

“No. I do.” He stands. “We had better go rescue your father, hadn’t we?”

* * *

Daeron supposes this must be similar to what being unhoused would be like.

He drifts from one task to another, doing it mechanically and with no real purpose. He smiles when he needs to, speaks gently to anyone who talks to him, does as his mother quietly guides him to – it is some relief that his mother insists on keeping him sheltered from the rest of the forest. He doesn’t know how he would keep his façade on in front of them.

His sister is as bright and bubbly as ever and she is _exhausting_ to be around, however much he loves her. She will talk and talk and talk and the words just drift over his head like clouds pass overhead in the sky. He tries to engage but his mind can’t focus on what she says and he keeps trailing off in the middle of his sentences as he loses his thoughts.

His father is more serious than before, a constant crease in his brow. When they are in front of the court, it is clear that Melian is completely in control of his body. There is no doubt about that – Daeron spent so much of his childhood learning what her every movement meant in her elven Hröa to keep himself safe that he can recognise it in any other body she may possess.

When they are alone, Melian lets that control go. Not completely but enough for him to be able to argue somewhat with what is said.

He can drift through his days with somewhat consciousness but in the evenings, he sits perfectly still and disappears completely from reality. He can’t bear to see the distress in his sister’s face when she sees her parents argue – her parents who she had seen in the brightest light, who she had wanted to emulate in her own life. He can’t bear to see his father so helpless and so clearly trying to do the right thing against a power far greater than his own.

And he cannot bear to see his mother’s sadistic smile as she teases escape for her husband before trapping him again, like a cat with its prey, and slowly carefully traps her daughter in a web of lies.

Daeron sits perfectly still on his seat until they are dismissed from the supper table and disappears back to his real home.

* * *

The door of Makalaurë’s room opens.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to find my husband.” Makalaurë holds his harp carefully in his arms, going to step around Maitimo and into the corridor.

Maitimo stops him with an arm. “No, you’re not.”

Makalaurë pushes the arm away, frowning. “Yes, I am.”

“You can’t.”

“I can and I will. You don’t control me or what I do.”

“You _can’t_ ,” Maitimo repeats, his eyes wild. “You can’t leave. You can’t. You…you…you…” Maitimo trails off, his breathing increasing and his eyes aren’t on Makalaurë anymore.

“Hey, hey.” Makalaurë tucks a lock of hair behind Maitimo’s ear. He starts at the gentle brush of Makalaurë’s fingers against his skin. “I’m not leaving forever. I will be back. I’m not going to die. But I have a daughter and I need to do this for her.”

“Please don’t go,” Maitimo whispers, his shaky hand coming to rest on Makalaurë’s braided head. “Please. I can’t lose you. You’re the only one I know is safe and I can’t…I can’t lose that too.”

Makalaurë leans his head forward against Maitimo’s. “I know. And I will be back.”

It feels so strange to be the one comforting Maitimo. All his life, Makalaurë has been the comforted, the one who has been odd and broken and out-of-the-ordinary.

It was always Maitimo, the perfect son, the perfect heir, the perfect prince, who drew him into tight embraces or sat just next to him when a hug would be too much. Maitimo who found him when he felt awful and who bandaged his wrists and arms when the world felt too much.

Something has happened to Maitimo on these shores and Makalaurë dreads to think what it is.

Whatever it was that had taken over Maitimo retreats again and Maitimo stands up, a guarded expression falling over his face. “You may leave,” He says, putting his hands – both metal and flesh – behind his back. “I will not stop you. Just…just promise that you will come back.”

There are clearly many things that Maitimo is not saying but Makalaurë respects his silence and nods. “I will come back. Do not fear for me – I shall have Ivárë with me.”

“She is young.”

“So am I.” Makalaurë gives him a smile. “I know the world is dangerous and I do not have experience with it. But I am not so immature as to be completely incompetent.”

Maitimo sighs. “Of course. Don’t hurt yourself and make sure you both eat. And don’t-”

Makalaurë laughs quietly. “You worry too much Nelyo.”

* * *

There is a knock on Daeron’s bedroom door.

He doesn’t react, continuing to sit on the edge of his bed and staring at the opposite wall. If they actually need him, they can let themselves in without prompt.

They do.

“Daeron, I heard that you had returned,” A soft voice says.

Nellas, Daeron’s mind supplies, and he turns his head slightly towards her voice but not quite enough to actually see her.

The door closes and there is the sound of bare feet making their way across carpeted floor. She settles herself beside him on the bed.

“Why did you do that? Beleg said you were happy with the Ñoldor.”

He shrugs. He doesn’t know how to explain what happened and he finds he doesn’t particularly want to.

“My dear magpie,” Her hand lays itself on his, folded neatly in his lap.

It is like a jolt of electricity suddenly coursing through him. He gasps, the world rushing back into his senses like a dam had broken.

He sobs. There are suddenly so many emotions and thoughts and things in his head that he’d been keeping back and it’s all a mess and he can’t think on any of them but they’re all _there_ and-

Nellas’ thumb rubs it’s way across his knuckles comfortingly and he chooses to focus on that instead of the confusing mess in his mind. He cries – although he doesn’t know why – until everything begins to go familiarly numb again.

It is safer to not have to think or feel and to just _do_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-Canon Names:  
> Melianion - Son of Melian
> 
> Quenya Translations:  
> Hröa - Body


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!
> 
> It is I! I bring you chapter 17! A quick note before we begin - I didn’t say this originally, but Daeron’s mother-name means Gift of Bitterness. And Lúthien’s mother-name is inspired by the meaning of the name Orpheus because of the similarities between the story of Orpheus and Eurydice and the Tale of Beren and Lúthien and because I’m on a Hadestown kick at the moment and because I think it fits quite nicely. 
> 
> Thank you to [oliviacat3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliviacat3/pseuds/oliviacat3) for beta’ing.
> 
> And I hope that you enjoy!

“I don’t know what Nelyo was so worried about,” Makalaurë says cheerily, strumming a final chord on his harp and putting it back on his back.

Ivárë stands, her sword held loosely in her hand and her mouth a little bit open. “That…that’s what Songs of Power can do?” She whispers, her eyes wide.

“Didn’t you know?” Makalaurë cocks his head curiously.

“No.” She frowns. “You and Ada kept saying to wait until I was older. You seemed very nervous about me learning. But if they can do this…”

Makalaurë grimaces, realising his logic. “It’s not the nicest death, I suppose.” He looks around at the corpses with their bulging eyes and the lumpy, black blood pouring from mouths and ears and noses. “And singing them…”

Singing Songs of Power is exhilarating. The power that is at your fingertips is _so_ tantalising to just grab and keep going. Your morals no longer matter so much – if you _can_ do it, there is little to stop you from doing it. Makalaurë…Makalaurë has been sucked into those eddies before.

He is lucky that he didn’t this time.

He says none of this to his daughter, smiling instead. “We should keep going. We don’t want more orcs to find us.” He yawns. “And I’m exhausted after that.”

* * *

There is a knock on Daeron’s bedroom door as he pulls his nightshirt over his head mechanically. He lets his arms falls down to his sides with a soft ‘flumph’ as the door is pushed open.

It is Nellas again.

She had gone back to her cottage in the forest after the last time she came and Daeron had thought, vaguely, that she was staying there.

He is apparently wrong.

“Glavril.” Her ancient eyes take him in. “Have you been eating?”

Daeron doesn’t know. He might have been but everything in the last few days (weeks?) has just sort of melted together.

He stares back at her in reply.

She steps forward and reaches out but Daeron flinches away and she pulls back. “Has she hurt you?” She asks.

“No.” His voice sounds dead to his ears. “I’m fine. I’m just going to bed now.”

“Right.” She hesitates a moment. “Would you like me to sing?”

He shrugs. He does but he doesn’t at the same time.

Nellas seems to take this for a yes for her eyes light up. She folds her hands neatly in front of her as Daeron crawls under the blanket. She adjusts it slightly so that it is tucked neatly under his chin and smoothing them down like she used to do when she would put him to be when he was very little.

She begins to sing, a soft song sung in the ancient language of Nen Echui and Daeron falls into the deepest, most restful sleep he has since he returned to Doriath.

* * *

“There’s a barrier.” Makalaurë looks at his daughter. “You didn’t tell me there was a barrier.”

“I thought I would have a plan for it by the time we got here!”

“And do you?”

“No.”

Makalaurë sighs. “Ivárë, it would have been nice to know this _before_ we made a three and a half week trek through orc infested lands.”

“But then you wouldn’t have come!”

“Yes. Because we would be making a _plan_ somewhere safe.” He rubs his forehead. “What do you know about the barrier?”

* * *

“Can you play for me Dae?” Lúthien comes bounding down the corridor to where Daeron has sat himself on the windowsill. Daeron has his flute in his lap – Maglor gave it to him when they first met after the incident in the cave – and it is the next best thing to having Maglor actually here.

Daeron tries to smile for his sister and her hopeful expression. “You wish to dance?”

“Yes! It hasn’t been the same without you.”

Daeron does not particularly want to move from this seat (to be honest, he does not particularly want to move at all) but his sister looks so excited at the prospect that Daeron feels his smile soften and become more real and he forces himself past his weariness to stand. “I see no harm in it. I am afraid it has been a while since I’ve been here. You will have to remind me where the best place to dance is.”

* * *

Makalaurë glares at the barrier.

They have been here for nearly three hours now and Makalaurë has had no ideas worth mentioning. He had climbed a nearby tree about an hour ago to see if a higher vantage point would be of any help and it wasn’t but he hadn’t bothered to climb back down.

Ivárë growls suddenly from below and stands from where she had slumped at the base of the tree trunk. “I’m going hunting. We need some food tonight and moving might help me think.”

“Be my guest – but don’t go too far, I want to be able to help should you be attacked.”

“Of course, Atto, I’m not stupid.” Makalaurë can _hear_ the eye roll in her voice.

“I didn’t say you were,” He says gently. “But it’s always worth the reminder.”

She huffs and begins to tramp into the woods.

* * *

“Where are you two going?” Melian’s voice is sickly sweet and Daeron freezes, the haze over his mind that had started to clear the longer he was in the wake of his little sister beginning to descend again at his mother’s mere presence.

Lúthien’s eyes light up. “We’re going _dancing_ , Nana, just like we used to.”

“That is _wonderful_ , Dúmorn.” It might be Daeron’s imagination but he thinks he sees Lúthien tense slightly at her mother-name. “Maybe this will cheer you up, Tifanto. You have been so mournful recently. The results, no doubt, of your captivity.” She presses a kiss to Daeron’s forehead and then Lúthien’s. “Go have fun dears.”

She glides down the corridor and out of sight. Lúthien’s face falls infinitesimally for a moment as she watches the retreating back but then her smile is back in full force and she takes Daeron’s hand, beginning once more to pull him forward. “You _must_ see the new glade I found – the forest wanted to reclaim our old one so I had to go further into the forest to find one that was good. It’s right by the border so we’ll be away for a few days but it’ll be worth it. The world _sings_ there like it doesn’t anywhere else within the girdle.”

Daeron smiles at her obvious ecstasy and tries to keep up.

* * *

Makalaurë is getting restless.

He is anxious and tired and running on some sort of energy that refuses to let him sleep. He can hear the Music pounding against his ears as it is prone to do when he gets like this.

He taps his fingers against the bark of the branch he is sitting on, humming as quietly as he can. On a branch just below him, Ivárë had settled herself after cooking the lone rabbit that she had shot in the three hours she spent searching for food and they had eaten it along with a small helping of berries.

It is also freezing cold as the night descends, the air shivering with a faint smattering of snow.

Makalaurë’s fingers are beginning to go numb.

He supposes that it wouldn’t hurt to play a quiet melody on his harp, just to keep his fingers moving and to combat the Music which is beginning to make it difficult to think.

* * *

“We’re here! Isn’t it beautiful?”

Daeron has to admit that it certainly is. This far from Melian’s control, Daeron feels a lot more secure in what is his mind and what isn’t. He feels like he actually belongs in this skin and is _acting_ with it not just witnessing himself move and talk and do.

The sunset creeps through the empty boughs of the trees in bright reds and oranges, creating a light show of dappled fire on the forest floor.

Lúthien does an experimental pirouette and turns to face Daeron with a smile that is…more real, he realises, than any he has seen in Doriath.

 _Play?_ She asks across their relatively unused bond and Daeron lifts his flute to his lips, his spirits buoyed suddenly by the familiarity of the action and the task. _This_ was something Melian couldn’t ever take away.

* * *

The soft notes that creep their way into the slowly growing snowstorm warms Makalaurë’s fingers and toes and creates a sort of protection from the weather around him and his daughter. It is not a full Song of Power but it is enough to keep the worst of the cold away.

It is relaxing to be playing something new for the first time since he lost his memories.

The Music does not get softer as he plays like it usually does. It continues to be quite present in the front of his mind, influencing the placing of his fingers on the strings.

He realises that this melody is familiar.

* * *

Lúthien twirls before him in a great swirl of skirts and fabric, her feet hitting the ground with a gentle but firm precision and her arms going through a series of alien forms.

Daeron continues to play, travelling from one melody to another with modulations between major keys and minor keys and all the modes in between.

He hasn’t felt this free and relaxed in a long time.

He is playing – and trying not to smile too widely and disturb his music – when he realises that the song he is playing is something that he hasn’t played in a long time.

It is fairly good, considering he composed it while heavily intoxicated by alcohol and the ellon that he would go on to marry that night.

What had started as a friendly competition became…became a realisation of affection and desire that snowballed so quickly into infatuation and then love.

Daeron can see Maglor lying on his bed in the tent they had disappeared to that night, half a glass of wine held idly in one hand and his leg swinging softly to Daeron’s gentle rendition of the melody (not that it had not been a very good rendition) that they had been trying to fit a harmony to.

He had been half-humming, a small smile gracing his lips.

Lips that moments later Daeron would be kissing.

“Dae?”

Daeron blinks. He hadn’t realised that he stopped and blinks.

“Sorry Lú.” He smiles and puts the flute back to his lips, returning to that same tune.

* * *

Makalaurë finishes a phrase and the snippet of a memory drifts from the recesses of his memory.

_“It’s a diminuendo!” Makalaurë’s voice says, laughter lacing his voice._

_“No. It’s decrescendo. The opposite of crescendo. How does that not make any sense to you?” Another voice insists._

_“It makes sense, it’s just very uncreative.”_

_“Oh and that’s what_ really _matters.”_

 _“It_ is _Dae! Everything should have it’s own name that’s not related to another word.”_

_“You say that like words have a consciousness.”_

_“Who said they didn’t?”_

_There is an aggressive few notes on a violin and laughter._

With that, the memory fades again to the recesses of his mind.

Dae.

Daeron.

Distantly, through the snow, Makalaurë can hear the music of a familiar flute playing the song that Makalaurë had just moments ago stopped playing.

Was that…

The thought isn’t quite finished as Makalaurë brings his fingers to the strings of his harp with a new determination, mixing it with strains of music he can hear from the far-off flute.

* * *

Daeron almost stops again when he hears the beginnings of familiar harp music.

Except he doesn’t, for fear that stopping would cause the impossible thing to go again and leave him alone.

His music falters for a moment as he stands from the base of a tree that he has settled himself by and begins to walk towards the harp music.

Lúthien seems rather fazed by this, coming out of a turn to look at him curiously.

“Daeron, what’s wrong?”

Daeron does not stop moving nor playing as he walks with great purpose towards the barrier between Doriath and the outside world as he sends a short feeling of reassurance across their bond.

Normally, it would be practically invisible to the naked eye, except today it is snowing and Melian clearly did not want that in Doriath and had kept it on the outside of the Girdle.

He plays a small trill and starts the melody again, straining his ears for the sound of a harp playing the counter-melody.

He fears for a moment that it was all in his head when he cannot hear the music but then…

Then it returns in full force.

* * *

Makalaurë had had to stop playing when he climbed down the tree but had picked his harp up the moment his feet hit solid ground to play the tune that is forming in his mind. It mixes with the far nearer music of the flute in perfect counterpoint, mixing to form a song that Makalaurë knows intimately but that he cannot quite recall the origins of.

The snow does not touch him as he walks closer and closer to the other musician.

He walks until he reaches the edge of the barrier.

For it is then that he sees Daeron. He is playing his flute with deft fingers and Makalaurë’s hands freeze on the strings.

He knows where that song came from.

He knows…he _knows_.

Daeron turns his head sharply when his harmonist stops abruptly. His flute slips from his hands as his arms fall to his side in disbelief.

“Maglor?”

And it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-Canon Names:  
> Dúmorn - Dark of Night (Sindarin)
> 
> Sindarin Translations:  
> Nen Echui - Waters of Awakening  
> Nana - Mother (Informal)  
> Ellon - Male elf
> 
> Quenya Translations:  
> Atto - Father (Informal)


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!
> 
> I bring you chapter 18 (and a bit more fluff than what we've had previously)! I have been writing the Fëanorian Week stories but have come across a bit of a problem - I don't know what to write for Caranthir? Like, I know exactly what is going on over in Thargelion and how everything to do with him and Haleth and their children works out, I just don't know what I want to write about. Does anyone here have anything they would like to read about Caranthir that vaguely fits with the prompts? Because I really need the help and that might be a good way to spark some inspiration.
> 
> A big thank you to [oliviacat3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliviacat3/pseuds/oliviacat3) for beta'ing!
> 
> And I hope that you enjoy!

Daeron desperately wants to reach over and hug Maglor until the end of all things but the barrier is in the way.

“Daeron,” Maglor whispers and Daeron can just catch it over the howling of the snow and the muffling affect that is created by the magic. “Daeron.” There is a sob in his voice and Daeron rushes forward to meet him but…the barrier.

“It’s happy crying – I’m happy!” Maglor insists, wiping at his eyes shakily. The snow has begun to settle in his hair as the remnants of the Song fading away taking the magic keeping the snow at bay with it. “I couldn’t…the dragon did something. I forgot you but now…now you’re here and I can remember again.”

“You had amnesia?” Daeron asks, three hundred and three terrible scenarios whirling through his mind. “And I wasn’t there. I’m so _stupid_! I shouldn’t have…I shouldn’t have come back.”

He sinks to the floor, adrenaline and music no longer able to stop the sudden weariness that had overcome him again.

Maglor’s lips purse slightly as he pulls his cloak tighter around himself. “Why _did_ you come back?”

“I initially went to Himlad but it had been overrun. I wanted to help your brothers – I was going to come back after I got them through the forest but my mother…” He trails off.

This is the perfect opportunity to tell Maglor the truth. This is the perfect opportunity to get everything off his chest and reveal his mother for the monster that she is.

But if he does that, she might hunt down Maglor before he can tell anyone else. She might kill Filegol. She still has his father and his sister firmly under her control and he can’t let them be harmed because he let her true nature slip.

“My mother is very protective.” He swallows at the bitter lie. “She doesn’t want me in any danger and so she has been keeping me here. I want to come back! I really do but she won’t let me through the barrier.”

Maglor sighs. “I-” He begins but is cut off as he hears something behind him. He reaches for one of his swords but relaxes as the figure comes into full view.

Daeron sits up straighter. “Filegol,” He says, slightly surprised and turns to Maglor. “You brought her?”

“It was my idea!” Filegol crosses her arms. “He doesn’t even know who you are! Anno Maedh-”

“Ivárë, don’t speak badly of your uncle.” Maglor looks up. “And my memory is not so bad now.”

“You can remember again!” She seems to realise that Daeron is there now. “And we found you!” She takes a step forward but is stopped by the barrier. “Oh.” Her faces falls slightly. “I don’t suppose any of us have a solution to this?”

“No. We don’t. We-” Maglor is cut off for the second time by a horrified: “Daeron!” and someone’s fast feet.

Lúthien, Daeron’s brain supplies as Lúthien falls to the ground beside him, searching for any sign of harm and glaring at Maglor and Filegol on the other side of the barrier.

“Are you alright?” She asks, switching into Doriathrin which Daeron knows Maglor doesn’t understand. He had been meaning to teach Filegol – and by proxy, his husband – but there had never seemed to be _time_.

“I’m fine, Lú. The barrier would protect us even if I needed protecting which I do not.” He switches back to Sindarin. “Lúthien, this is my husband Maglor and our daughter Filegol.”

Her lips part in surprise.

“You…you _married_ him?” She recoils in horror, still speaking in their tongue.

Daeron sets his shoulders back and stands, putting his hands on his hips. “Yes. I love him Lúthien.”

“Oh Eru.” She puts a hand to her forehead. “Did he enchant you, Dae? Surely you can’t truly believe-”

“Yes I believe it! I wasn’t ever kidnapped or captured! Naneth _tortured_ me, Lú, for not being a perfect son. She threw me in a dungeon and I only escaped because Ada rescued me. Maglor loves me and I love him. My family is with him. I would have you join-”

“No!” She takes another step back. “He’s done something to you! Warped your memories, made you believe lies. Nana wouldn’t…Nana wouldn’t do that to you.”

Daeron purses his lips. “She did Lúthien. You _know_ she’s not good. You’ve seen-”

“I haven’t seen anything!” She scrunches her face as if she’s either going to cry or scream. “You’re insane Daeron.”

“I am no such thing. I’ve just stopped believing her lies.”

“They aren’t lies!” She shakes her head as she takes another step back. “You’re insane,” She mumbles again.

“You _know_ I tell the truth.” He walks forward slowly. “Lúthien-”

She looks up sharply to meet Daeron’s eyes. “I’m getting Nana. She’ll talk sense into you.”

“Lúthien!”

But she has run off into the forest without a second look back.

* * *

Daeron continues to stand there even after his sister has fled from sight.

Maglor draws his cloak tighter around himself, blinking through snow-laden eyelashes, waiting for Daeron to turn around.

He does, eventually, with a wild sort of light in his eyes.

“We _need_ to break this barrier,” He says. “I can’t stay here any longer. I’ll lose my mind.”

They stand still and silent for a long moment before: “A Song.”

Maglor turns to his daughter who is looking somewhere in the middle distance, the beginnings of a plan forming on her face. She turns excitedly to the pair of them. “A Song of Power might be able to break through. It’s made of Music, is it not?”

Maglor shares a look with his husband. It’s a rather good idea.

“You’re right about the formation of the barrier.” Daeron’s fingers trace over the invisible girdle. “But I fear I would be unable to do that. It’s my mother’s Song and I have never been good at fighting against it.”

“I could-” Maglor starts but stops at the look that Daeron gives him. “What?”

“I can _feel_ your exhaustion across our bond.” And then, over said bond: _We just sang a Song of Power and you have a propensity for getting lost. We don’t need you collapsing_.

Maglor purses his lips. “I suppose. There goes that plan.”

“I could sing it.”

“No!” Maglor says at the same time as his husband.

Maglor shakes his head. “It’s too dangerous.”

Ivárë huffs and crosses her arms. “I’m nearly eighty, Atto. I’ve reached my first majority. And you’re not getting past the barrier without my help. Unless you can think of another way?”

Maglor has two very strong, very conflicting desires in that moment: he wants nothing more than to keep Ivárë away from the ever-enticing eddies of the Music that once sung, continue to come back and haunt you, to tease at your mind with promises of power, to beg you to come back and sing _just_ a little bit more but at the same time, he absolutely refuses to leave his husband somewhere where he so clearly does not want to be.

“OK,” He says, shivering slightly against the cold. “I’ll teach you.”

“Maglor!”

_She’d end up falling in herself. We might as well make the first time as easy as possible._

Daeron deadpans. _This will not be ‘easy’._

 _It’ll be easier than accidentally singing your way unconscious._ Maglor can still remember waking up after that first time, Elemmírë and Maedhros and his parents all waiting anxiously around his bed in the healing wing (Aelineth had been making sure that Celegorm and Caranthir didn’t cause chaos). He had had the most awful headache and would have thrown up had there been anything in his stomach and his mind had been so confused that he hadn’t been able to form words for a long while afterwards.

Daeron looks at him in surprise. _You – I didn’t realise you could do it accidentally_.

_Elemmírë said that everyone she knows who can hear the Music did. She had taught herself how to block it out but I never caught on before…before I left._

_Oh Eru. I thought-_

Ivárë huffs before Daeron can finish. “Stop talking behind my back.”

“I’m sorry, Filegol. I just needed to determine something and we got a bit side-tracked.” Daeron eyes Maglor for a moment before he turns a faded smile on his daughter. “Now, onto that Song.”

* * *

“Listen to the Music, just like we taught you,” Daeron says and Filegol nods, closing her eyes and cocking her head to the left slightly.

“Now, can you hear the difference between the outside world and the barrier? It should feel unnatural like a discordant harmony.”

She nods again.

“Right, now you must create a counter-melody to what you hear that is similar enough that it could become part of the harmony. When you have done that, you will feel the notes of the Music try and warp itself around your melody. At that point, you must change it gradually away from what you are singing into a completely new melody. Changing the key you’re in to an unrelated key is a good idea as is changing tempo and dynamics.”

Filegol opens one eye slightly. “How do you Sing the actual Song of Power?”

Maglor answers. “It just sort of…happens. It’s less singing in a different way and more…it’s difficult to sing a Song of Power if you can’t hear the Music because it requires hearing the Music and knowing how to manipulate it. My cousin Finrod can’t naturally but he taught himself. You have always been able to hear it quite clearly so it should come naturally.”

Her eyes open completely. “And if it doesn’t work?”

“Then we shall think of something else.”

She bites her lip and then asks, very quietly: “What if something goes wrong?”

“Then we will help you.” Maglor presses a kiss to her forehead and Daeron sends the equivalent of a mental hug across their bond. There is anxiety there and Daeron wants to say that she needn’t do this but…

She does, in all honesty.

“OK.” She takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “OK, I’m ready.”

She stands up straight, tossing her braids over her shoulder and begins to Sing.

* * *

Maglor is poised for an intervention throughout the Song.

The Song starts quietly, without Ivárë’s usual assurance, but it soon grows in confidence until she is singing something that mirrors the Song of the girdle just as it needs to. There is a moment of hesitation in the Music before she plunges on and begins to modulate through the circle of fifths until she is in a key that is completely unrelated to the Song of the girdle.

Maglor can hear the girdle weaken until a thin sliver of it goes silent in deference to the stronger tune.

Daeron notices it too, slipping through and into the snow. He is decidedly not dressed for the weather but they decide without words that their daughter is the more important concern in that time.

“Melilot,” Maglor begins, reaching out to hover a hand just over the burning skin of her cheek, knowing that touching her would jerk her from the state of somewhere-between-everything sharply and make everything feel worse. At her old name, the Song Ivárë is Singing flickers but Ivárë herself just stares at him with sightless eyes and does not stop. “I need you to come back now Yenya. You’ve done wonderfully.”

He can feel Daeron beside him gently cover her mind in a comforting blanket that muffles the world around you which is always in so much more definition when you Sing. The Song fades away as Maglor continues to murmur gentle reassurances and Ivárë gasps, her legs giving out on her.

Maglor is prepared, lunging out to catch her before she falls into the freezing snow. He cradles her in his lap with Daeron just beside him, brushing Ivárë’s flyaway hair off her face.

“Ada?” She mumbles and Daeron presses a kiss to her forehead.

“It’s alright Filegol, get some rest. I’m right here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya Translations:  
> Anno - Uncle (Informal)  
> Atto - Father (Informal)  
> Yenya - My daughter 
> 
> Sindarin Translations:  
> Naneth - Mother (Formal)  
> Nana - Mother (Informal)  
> Ada - Father (Informal)


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!
> 
> Here's chapter 19!
> 
> Thank you to [oliviacat3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliviacat3/pseuds/oliviacat3) for beta'ing!
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

“Lord Makalaurë, Lady Ivárë.” One of the guards manning the gate at bottom of the mountain Himring was situated on bows politely to both of them, completely ignoring Daeron. “Lord Maedhros was worried.”

“Well, he needn’t have been – I’m here and I’m perfectly fine. We all are. Now can we come past?”

The guard hesitates for a moment, sending Daeron a dirty look, but before he can say anything, his partner sighs.

“Of course my Lords. Lady.” He bows and the gate opens with a creak.

“Weird,” Filegol says. She has pretty much recovered from her bout of fever after they spent a few days in a cave and is looking practically back to full health.

“Your uncle’s people are just kind of like that,” Maglor replies.

Daeron would believe that, if not for the fact that that is not the only person to send him an angry glare.

* * *

“Ivárë!” Tegoluin flies from seemingly nowhere and throws herself into her friend’s arms. “You were gone for so long! Are you OK?”

Ivárë laughs. “I’m absolutely fine Teg. And look – we found Ada!”

Tegoluin seems to realise that Maglor and Daeron are standing there as Ivárë gestures vaguely in their direction. Her eyes light up and her grin gets even bigger as she turns, her arm linked with Ivárë’s. “Oh _good_. It’s been so dull here without you. Your brother doesn’t understand the meaning of the word ‘fun’.”

Maglor rolls his eyes. “He does, I promise. He’s probably just very stressed at the moment. He doesn’t like it when things don’t work nicely into his view of the world. Where _is_ he anyway? I need to talk to him.”

“Ugh…” She makes her thinking face. “I think he’s with Aelineth on the battlements – she’s taken over as lieutenant here since Silifail…well, Silifail died while you were away. There were a few orc attacks and he led one that ended up being worse than anticipated.”

“Ah.” Maglor bites his lip. “So, what’s been going on while we were away? Other than orc raids.”

“Let’s see…” She twists a lock of hair around her finger. “We have made Maedhros cry three times now.”

Maglor sighs, running a hand over his face. “Why?”

“We didn’t mean to!” She says, raising her hands and looking just a bit indignant. “He just has no chill.”

Daeron gently pats his arm as Maglor groans.

“What happened?” Maglor asks, feeling that it is his duty to deal with problem caused by his people.

“The first time was about a week after Maglor and Ivárë. There was this rumour going ‘round that you had abandoned Maglor and all of us because of cowardice or something. Of course, _we_ knew that wasn’t true but Maedhros’ people don’t know you at all well and don’t think the highest of the Sindar.”

Maglor sighs again. He is beginning to miss not being able to remember anything. “It was Amdír, wasn’t it?”

“To be honest,” Ivárë says. “He _was_ being provoked and he did keep his temper in line for a fair while before he snapped. Aelineth talked to him about it so don’t worry ‘bout it.”

“And why did this make Maedhros cry?”

“Oh, he didn’t do anything about it so Oropher convinced everyone from the Gap to speak purely in Quenya. It’s been a wonderful time.” She grinned. “I would like to say right now, that I had nothing to do with it but that I’m so very proud of him.”

“You know what?” Maglor began. “I think it is better for my sanity if I do not ask about the other two times. I’m going to find Maedhros and Aelineth. Don’t cause destruction you two.”

He pulls Daeron behind him, leaving their daughter and their loremaster – although Maglor isn’t sure that that accurately describes his relationship to the nís who has wormed her way into his family and now refuses to leave – behind them.

* * *

“I’m so sorry,” Daeron says as soon as they are out of earshot.

Maglor gives him a surprised look. “Why? What did you do?”

Daeron blinks back. Surely Maglor had heard the entire conversation that had just happened. “I’m causing a disaster because I left.”

“This is not your fault. It is the fault of bored people with far too much time to gossip.” He glances around. “I cannot remember my way around here. Let’s go this way.”

Daeron follows in his husband’s wake. “I seem to be the cause of all this discontent.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Maglor waives off his complaint, stopping for a moment to decide which corridor to go down. “Maedhros’ people are rather suspicious. Maedhros has been rather paranoid since Angband and it rubbed off on his men.” He nods politely at two passing guards who both gave Daeron rather dirty looks. “Loyal to a fault, I’ll give them that. But don’t blame yourself. They’ll come round. Oh! Oropher!”

The ellon broke off the conversation he was having and his face lit up.

“Renn Daeron! Maglor!” Oropher hugs both of them tightly and pulls back, his eyes shining. “You’re back! You were away so long, we were beginning to worry that something had happened.” He turns to Maglor. “And after you were injured too. You should have asked me and Amdír to accompany you. We would have been glad to come.”

“We were quite alright as we were.” Maglor squeezes Daeron’s hand. “It was fairly uneventful, all things considered. I fear you would have been terribly bored.”

“And Anno!” The ellon Oropher had been talking to drapes an arm over Oropher’s shoulders. “Then we would have had to have missed the utter chaos they are able to stir up. And that would have been _terrible_.”

Maglor’s eyes light up. “Ereinion.” Ah, so _this_ was the ellon that Maedhros and Fingon had adopted. “I thought you were with your father in Himlad.”

“I was.” Oropher ducks out of his arm as Gil-Galad speaks. “He wanted a message sent to Atya and then I haven’t left ‘cause it’s safer here. I think that was his plan all along.”

“That sounds like Finno. And it’s good to see you but I’m looking for your father.”

“Northern battlements, I believe. At least, that is what he said he was doing. Something to do with Aelineth.”

Maglor presses a kiss to Gil-Galad’s forehead – and Daeron has to smother a laugh at the look of utter disgust on his face – and begins to drag him forward again.

“Wait a moment,” Daeron says, twisting around and yelling in Doriathrin: “Oropher! You and your brother can stop defending my honour now!”

“I make no promises!” Oropher yells back and Daeron supposes that that’s the best he’s going to get.

Maglor looks at him curiously as they continue on, going vaguely northwards through the maze of corridors, and prods their bond softly for an explanation.

“The whole fighting thing? It’s a Doriathrin tradition.”

This does not seem to clear things up.

“So, you know how you will all do duels if someone’s slighted you?”

“I suppose. Although it’s a bit more complicated than that.”

“Yeah, well, in Doriath you don’t really have very public fights for honour. It’s more that the slighted will be really petty until the other side shows forgiveness. I think that might have been what was going on and I don’t think it was helping to bring people together.”

Maglor snorts a laugh.

“It’s not funny!”

“I think you’ll find, it’s hilarious. I _wish_ I could have seen Maedhros’ face as he was being slightly inconvenienced at every turn.”

* * *

In the end, Maglor gave up trying to search his groggy mind and asked for directions to the northern battlements from one of the patrolling guards.

The northern battlements are freezing despite the beginnings of the Stirring peeking it’s head up so Maglor is glad that he is still clad in his cloak and warm clothes from the journey.

It takes quite a bit of traipsing along the top of the freezing wall and enduring the curious looks of the soldiers stationed there but eventually he sees a familiar head of red hair in deep conversation with Aelineth who has her hands on her hips and a set to her jaw that tells Maglor easily enough that Maedhros will not be winning this argument.

“Morning Toronya!” Maglor calls, his hand still firmly in Daeron’s – Maglor can’t actually recall when he last took it out of Daeron’s – and his smile bright.

“Makalaurë, you’re back!” Maedhros turns away from Aelineth who huffs and throws up her hands in frustration.

“Maglor,” Maglor corrects. “And yes. We lost Ivárë to Tegoluin about an hour ago – did you know that it’s impossible to navigate this fortress? – but you’ll be able to see her at supper.”

“You remember!” The relief on Maedhros’ face is evident for a moment before it smooths over. “Good. I’m glad that you’ve returned Daeron.” He nods in his direction. “Your…people have been a bit…”

“Disruptive?” Maglor supplies, suddenly rather cheery. “Rude? Annoying? Doing what your little brother could not while he was otherwise indisposed? We dealt with it. There’s no need to worry.”

“Probably,” Daeron adds. “Oropher didn’t look like he particularly wanted to co-operate.”

Maglor shrugs. “He will.”

“As I was telling Maedhros,” Aelineth cuts in. “I don’t think the entire blame can be laid on your wayward wards.”

Maedhros rolls his eyes, looking visibly annoyed. “And as I was telling _Aelineth_ , I am _not_ changing the system I have had in place for the last three hundred years that has been working perfectly fine.”

“And as I replied to Maedhros, you didn’t have an influx of a population who were unwilling to a large change in their lifestyle.”

“And as I replied to Aelineth, _sometimes_ you don’t get what you want.”

“Well maybe,” Maglor says as he can feel his husband trying desperately to not laugh. “Aelineth and Maedhros would like to stop acting like children and compromise?”

“We’re not acting like children.”

Maglor shrugs. “If you say so.”

“Maglor.”

He smiles innocently at both of them. “Are you done here? Because it’s been _ages_ since I’ve seen either of you and I want to be able to bond.”

“Why are you being like this?” Maedhros asks, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

Maglor wrinkles his nose in confusion. “Being like what?”

Maedhros looks at him for a moment longer before shaking his head. “Never mind.” He gives him a sort of smile as a gong sounds from somewhere. “There’s the bell for supper. Come on.”

* * *

“Are you sure you’ve never played this before?” Gil-Galad asks, frowning at Tegoluin as Daeron cleans out his flute, carefully avoiding Maglor’s sleeping head, pillowed in his lap.

“Yep!” She says, popping the p. “It’s fun though, I don’t know why I never have.”

“You had no friends?” Amdír suggests, not looking up from the book he’s reading – it’s one that Maglor had kept in his room here on the intricacies on growing crops which he is apparently finding riveting.

She throws a board piece at him which he catches and throws back.

“Don’t do that,” Aelineth scolds, glancing away from the reports scattered across the table between her and Maedhros. “Those are nice and we don’t want them to chip.”

“So it wouldn’t be advisable to eat them?” Filegol asks and Daeron sighs.

 _Don’t you dare, iel-nin_ , he sends across their bond but Filegol ignores him.

“Why would you _eat_ them?” Maedhros looks at her in great concern. “Why…why did that even _occur_ to you?”

Filegol shrugs. “I thought wood was good for your digestion.”

“No? Why would you…?” Maedhros trails off as he realises that his niece is being facetious. “Ivárifinwë, that wasn’t funny.”

“I think you’ll find that it was hilarious.”

Tegoluin begins to reset the board with Gil-Galad as Filegol leans into her side. Maedhros turns his glare to Daeron. “Can you control your daughter?”

“He can’t,” Oropher says as he switches his coloured pencil and glares as his brother moves to stand up.

“I can’t,” Daeron agrees.

“I’m a…what did Lostin call me? Oh yes, a force of nature.”

Maedhros sighs, handing Aelineth a piece of paper. “I have been invaded.”

“You’re only noticing now?”

Maedhros rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to the paperwork. He and Aelineth work silently as Oropher continues to draw – supposedly his brother, if the furious looks he sends Amdír whenever he so much as shifts in his seat are anything to go by – and Tegoluin and Gil-Galad have another furious game of Tyalitar, Tegoluin being egged on by Filegol (who Aelineth had taught the rules to personally – it would not surprise Daeron at all if it turned out that Filegol had found a way to surreptitiously cheat).

Maglor stays sleeping in his lap as Daeron puts the flute to his lips and begins to play a soft melody.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya Translations:  
> Nís - Elf Woman  
> Anno - Uncle (Informal)  
> Atya - Father (Informal)  
> Toronya - My brother (Informal)
> 
> Sindarin Translations:  
> Ellon - Elf Man  
> Iel-nin - My daughter (Informal)


End file.
